The Second Generation

Chapter One

Caramon stood in a vast chamber carved of obsidian. It was so wide, its perimeter was lost in shadow, so high its ceiling was obscured in shadow. No pillars supported it. No lights lit it. Yet light there was, though none could name its source. It was a pale light, white—not yellow. Cold and cheerless, it gave no warmth.

Though he could see no one in the chamber, though he could hear no sound disturb the heavy silence that seemed centuries old, Caramon knew he was not alone. He could feel the eyes watching him as they had watched him long ago, and so he stood stolidly, waiting patiently until they deemed it time to proceed.

He guessed what they were doing, and he smiled, but only inwardly. To those watching eyes, the big man’s face remained smooth, impassive. They would see no weakness in him, no sorrow, no bitter regret. Though memory was reaching out to him, its hand was warm, its touch gentle. He was at peace with himself, and had been for twenty-five years.

As if reading his thoughts—which, Caramon supposed, they might well have been—those present in the vast chamber suddenly revealed themselves. It was not that the light grew brighter, or a mist lifted, or the darkness parted, for none of that happened. Caramon felt more as though he were the one who had suddenly entered, though he had been standing there upwards of a quarter hour. The two robed figures that appeared before him were a part of this place just like the white, magical light, the ages-old silence. He wasn’t—he was an outsider and would be one forever.

“Welcome once again to our tower, Caramon Majere,” said a voice.

Caramon bowed, saying nothing. He couldn’t—for the life of him—remember die man’s name.

“Justarius,” the man said, smiling pleasantly. “Yes, the years have been long since we last met, and our last meeting was during a desperate hour. It is small wonder you have forgotten me. Please, be seated.” A heavy, carved, oaken chair materialized beside Caramon. “You have journeyed long and are weary, perhaps.”

Caramon started to state that he was just fine, that a journey like this was nothing to a man who had been over most of the continent of Ansalon in his younger days. But at the sight of the chair with its soft, inviting cushions, Caramon realized that the journey had been rather a long one—longer than he remembered it. His back ached, his armor appeared to have grown heavier, and it seemed that his legs just weren’t holding up their end of things anymore.

Well, what do you expect, Caramon asked himself with a shrug. I’m the proprietor of an inn now. I’ve got responsibilities. Someone’s got to sample the cooking... . Heaving a rueful sigh, he sat down, shifting his bulk about until he was settled comfortably.

“Getting old, I guess,” he said with a grin.

“It comes to all of us,” Justarius answered, nodding his head. “Well, most of us,” he amended, with a glance at the figure who sat beside him. Following his gaze, Caramon saw the figure throw back its rune-covered hood to reveal a familiar face—an elven face.

“Greetings, Caramon Majere.”

“Dalamar,” returned Caramon steadily with a nod of his head, though the grip of memory tightened a bit at the sight of the black-robed wizard.

Dalamar looked no different than he had years ago—wiser, perhaps, calmer and cooler. At ninety years of age, he had been just an apprentice magic-user, considered little more than a hot-blooded youth as far as the elves were concerned. Twenty-five years mattered no more to the long-lived elves than the passing of a day and night. Now well over one hundred, his cold, handsome face appeared no older than a human of thirty.

“The years have dealt kindly with you, Caramon,” Justarius continued. “The Inn of the Last Home, which you now own, is one of the most prosperous in Krynn. You are a hero—you and your lady wife both. Tika Majere is well and undoubtedly as beautiful as ever?”

“More,” Caramon replied huskily.

Justarius smiled. “You have five children, two daughters and three sons—”

A sliver of fear pricked Caramon’s contentment. No, he said to himself inwardly, they have no power over me now. He settled himself more solidly in his chair, like a soldier digging in for battle.

“The two eldest, Tanin and Sturm, are soldiers of renown”—Justarius spoke in a bland voice, as though chatting with a neighbor over the fence. Caramon wasn’t fooled, however, and kept his eyes closely on the wizard—“bidding fair to outdo their famous father and mother in deeds of valor on the field. But the third, the middle child, whose name is—” Justarius hesitated.

“Palin,” said Caramon, his brows lowering into a frown. Glancing at Dalamar, the big man saw the dark elf watching him intently with slanted, inscrutable eyes.

“Palin, yes.” Justarius paused, then said quietly, “It would seem he follows in the footsteps of his uncle.”

There. It was out. Of course, that’s why they had ordered him here. He had been expecting it, or something like it, for a long time now. Damn them!

Why couldn’t they leave him alone! He never would have come, if Palin hadn’t insisted. Breathing heavily, Caramon stared at Justarius, trying to read the man’s face. He might as well have been trying to read one of his son’s spellbooks.

Justarius, head of the Conclave of Wizards, was the most powerful magic-user in Krynn. The red-robed wizard sat in the great stone chair in the center of the semicircle of twenty-one chairs. An elderly man, his gray hair and lined face were the only outward signs of aging. The eyes were as shrewd, the body appeared as strong—except the crippled left leg—as when Caramon had first met the archmage twenty-five years ago.

Caramon’s gaze went to the mage’s left leg. Hidden . beneath the red robes, the man’s injury was noticeable only to those who had seen him walk.

Aware of Caramon’s scrutiny, Justarius’s hand went selfconsciously to rub his leg, then he stopped with a wry smile. Crippled Justarius may be, Caramon thought, chilled, but only in body. Not in mind or ambition. Twenty-five years ago, Justarius had been the leading spokesman only of his own order, the Red Robes, those wizards in Krynn who had turned their backs against both the evil and the good to walk their own path, that of neutrality. Now he ruled over all the wizards in the world, presumably—the White Robes, Red Robes, and the Black.

Since magic is the most potent force in a wizard’s life, he swears fealty to the conclave, no matter what private ambitions or desires he nurses within his own heart.

Most wizards, that is. Of course, there had been Raistlin . . .

Twenty-five years ago.

Par-Salian of the White Robes had been head of the conclave then.

Caramon felt memory’s hand clutch him more tightly still.

“I don’t see what my son has to do with any of this,” he said in an even, steady voice. “If you want to meet my boys, they are in that room you magicked us into after we arrived. I’m sure you can magic them in here anytime you want. So, now that we have concluded social pleasantries—By the way, where is Par-Salian?” Caramon demanded suddenly, his gaze going around the shadowy chamber, flicking over the empty chair next to Justarius.

“He retired as head of the conclave twenty-five years ago,” Justarius said gravely, “following the ... the incident in which you were involved.”

Caramon flushed, but said nothing. He thought he detected a slight smile on Dalamar’s delicate elven features.

“I took over as head of the conclave, and Dalamar was chosen to succeed Ladonna as head of the Order of Black Robes in return for his dangerous and valiant work during—”

“The incident.” Caramon growled. “Congratulations,” he said.

Dalamar’s lip curled in a sardonic smile. Justarius nodded, but it was obvious he was not to be distracted from the previous topic of discussion.

“I would be honored to meet your sons,” Justarius said coolly, “Palin in particular. I understand that the young man is desirous of becoming a mage someday.”

“He’s studying magic, if that’s what you mean,” Caramon said gruffly. “I don’t know how seriously he takes it, or if he plans to make it his livelihood, as you seem to imply. He and I have never discussed it—”

Dalamar snorted derisively at this, causing Justarius to lay his hand on the dark elf’s black-robed arm.

“Perhaps we have been mistaken in what we have heard of your son’s ambition, then?”

“Perhaps you have,” Caramon returned coolly. “Palin and I are close,” he added in a softer voice. “I’m certain he would have confided in me.”

“It is refreshing to see a man these days who is honest and open about his love for his sons, Caramon Majere,” began Justarius mildly.

“Bah!” Dalamar interrupted. “You might as well say it is refreshing to see a man with his eyes gouged out!” Snatching his arm from the old wizard’s grasp, he gestured at Caramon. “You were blind to your brother’s dark ambition for years, until it was almost too late. Now you turn sightless eyes to your own son—”

“My son is a good boy, as different from Raistlin as the silver moon is from the black! He has no such ambition! What would you know of him anyway, you... you outcast?” Caramon shouted, rising to his feet in anger. Though well over fifty, the big man had kept himself in relatively good condition through hard work and training his sons in the arts of battle. His hand went reflexively to his sword, forgetting as he did so, however, that in the Tower of High Sorcery he would be as helpless as a gully dwarf facing a dragon. “And speaking of dark ambition, you served your master well, didn’t you, Dalamar? Raistlin taught you a lot, perhaps more than we know—”

“And I bear the mark of his hand upon my flesh still!” Dalamar cried, rising to his feet in turn. Ripping his black robes open at the neck, he bared his breast. Five wounds, like the marks of five fingers, were visible on the dark elf’s smooth skin. A thin trickle of blood trailed down each, glistening in the cold light of the Chamber of Wizards. “For twenty-five years, I’ve lived with this pain....”

“And what of my pain?” Caramon asked in a low voice, feeling memory’s hand dig sharp nails into his soul. “Why have you brought me here? To cause my wounds to open and bleed as well as your own!”

“Gentlemen, please,” said Justarius softly. “Dalamar, control yourself. Caramon, please sit down. Remember, you two owe your lives to each other. This establishes a bond between you that should be respected.”

The old man’s voice penetrated the shouts that still echoed in t he vast chamber, its cool authority silencing Caramon and calming Dalamar.

Clasping his torn robes together with his hand, the dark elf resumed his seat next to Justarius.

Caramon, too, sat down, ashamed and chagrined. He had sworn that he would not let this happen, that these people would have no power to shake him.

And already he’d lost control. Trying to assume a relaxed expression, he leaned back in the chair. But his hand clenched the hilt of his sword.

“Forgive Dalamar,” Justarius said, his hand once again on the dark elf’s arm.

“He spoke in haste and anger. You are right, Caramon. Your son, Palin, is a good man—I think we must say man and not boy. He is, after all, twenty—”

“Just turned twenty,” Caramon muttered, eyeing Justarius warily.

The red-robed archmage waved it aside. “And he is, as you say, different from Raistlin. How not? He is his own person, after all, born to different parents, under different, happier circumstances than faced you and your twin. From all we hear, Palin is handsome, likeable, strong, and fit. He does not have the burden of ill health to bear, as did Raistlin. He is devoted to his family, especially his two elder brothers. They, in turn, are devoted to him. Is all this true?”

Caramon nodded, unable to speak past the sudden lump in his throat.

Looking at him, Justarius’s mild gaze suddenly became sharp and penetrating.

He shook his head. “But in some ways you are blind, Caramon. Oh, not as Dalamar said”— Caramon’s face went red with anger—“not the way you were blinded to your brother’s evil. This is the blindness that afflicts all parents, my friend. I know.” Justarius smiled and gave rueful shrug. “I have a daughter...”

Glancing at Dalamar out of the corner of his eye, the archmage sighed. The handsome elf’s lips twitched in a hint of a smile. He said nothing, however, simply sat staring into the shadows.

“Yes, we parents can be blind,” Justarius murmured, “but that is neither here nor there.” Leaning forward, the archmage clasped his hands together. “I see you growing impatient, Caramon. As you guessed, we have called you here for a purpose. And, I’m afraid it does have something to do with your son, Palin.”

This is it, Caramon said to himself, scowling, his sweating hand clenching and unclenching nervously around the hilt of his sword.

“There is no easy way to say this, so I will be blunt and direct.” Justarius drew a deep breath; his face became grave and sorrowful, touched with a shadow of fear. “We have reason to believe that the young man’s uncle—your twin brother, Raistlin—is not dead."

Chapter Two

“This place shivers my skin!” Tanin muttered, with a sideways glance at his youngest brother.

Slowly sipping a cup of tarbean tea, Palin stared into the flames of the fire, pretending not to have heard Tanin’s remark, which he knew was addressed to him.

“Oh, in the name of the Abyss, would you sit down!” Sturm said, tossing pieces of bread at his brother. “You’re going to walk yourself right through the floor, and the gods only know what’s beneath us.”

Tanin merely frowned, shook his head, and continued his pacing.

“Reorx’s beard, Brother!” Sturm continued almost incomprehensibly, his mouth full of cheese. “You’d think we were in a draconian dungeon instead of what might pass for a room in one of the finest inns in Palanthas itself! Good food, great ale—” he took a long pull to wash down the cheese —“and there’d be pleasant company if you weren’t acting like such a doorknob!”

“Well, we aren’t in one of the finest inns in Palanthas,” said Tanin sarcastically, stopping in his pacing to catch a hunk of thrown bread. Grinding it to bits in his hand, he tossed it on the floor. “We’re in the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth. We’ve been spirited into this room. The damn doors are locked, and we can’t get out. We have no idea what these wizards have done with Father, and all you can think of is cheese and ale!”

“That's not all I’m thinking of,” Sturm said quietly with a nod of his head and a worried glance at their little brother, who was still staring into the fire.

“Yeah,” Tanin snapped gloomily, his gaze following Sturm’s. “I’m thinking of him, too! If s his fault we’re here in the first place!” Moodily kicking a table leg as he walked past, Tanin resumed his pacing. Seeing his little brother flinch at his older brother’s words, Sturm sighed and returned to his sport of trying to hit Tanin between the shoulder blades with the bread.

Anyone observing the older two young men (as some one was at this very moment) might have taken them for twins, though they were—in reality—a year apart in age. Twenty-four and twenty-three respectfully, Tanin and Sturm (named for Caramon’s best friend, Tanis Half-Elven, and the heroic Knight of Solamnia, Sturm Brightblade) looked, acted, and even thought alike. Indeed, they often played the part of twins and enjoyed nothing so much as when people mistook one for the other.

Big and brawny, each young man had Caramon’s splendid physique and his genial, honest face. But the bright red curls and dancing green eyes that wreaked such havoc among the women the young men met came directly from their mother, who had broken her share of hearts in her youth. One of the beauties of Krynn as well as a renowned warrior, Tika Waylan had grown a little plumper since the days when she bashed draconians over the head with her skillet. But heads still turned when Tika waited tables in her fluffy, low-necked white blouse, and there were few men who left the Inn of the Last Home without shaking their heads and swearing that Caramon was a lucky fellow.

The green eyes of young Sturm were not dancing now, however. Instead, they glinted mischievously as, with a wink at his younger brother—who wasn’t watching—Sturm rose silently to his feet and, positioning himself behind the preoccupied Tanin, quietly drew his sword. Just as Tanin turned around, Sturm stuck the sword blade between his brother’s legs, tripping him and sending him to the floor with a crash that seemed to shake the very foundation of the tower.

“Damn you for a lame-brained gully dwarf!” roared Tanin. Clambering to his feet, he leapt after his brother, who was scrambling to get out of the way.

Tanin caught him and, grabbing hold of the grinning Sturm by the collar of his tunic, sent him sprawling backward into the table, smashing it to the floor. Tanin jumped on top of his brother, and the two were engaged in their usual rough-and-tumble antics, which had left several barrooms in Ansalon in shambles, when a quiet voice brought the tussle to a halt.

“Stop it,” said Palin tensely, rising from his chair by the fire. “Stop it, both of you! Remember where you are!”

“I remember where I am,” Tanin said sulkily, gazing up at his youngest brother.

As tall as the older two young men, Palin was well-built. Given to study rather than swordplay, however, he lacked the heavy musculature of the two warriors. He had his mother’s red hair, but it was not fiery red, being nearer a dark auburn. He wore his hair long—it flowed to his shoulders in soft waves from a central part on his forehead. But it was the young man’s face—his face and his hands—that sometimes haunted the dreams of his mother and father. Fine-boned, with penetrating, intelligent eyes that always seemed to be seeing right through one, Palin’s face had the look of his uncle, if not his features. Palin’s hands were Raistlin’s, however. Slender, delicate, the fingers quick and deft, the young man handled the fragile spell components with such skill that his father was often torn between watching with pride and looking away in sadness.

Just now, the hands were clenched into fists as Palin glared grimly at his two older brothers lying on the floor amid spilled ale, pieces of bread, crockery, a half-eaten cheese, and shards of broken table.

“Then try to behave with some dignity, at least!” Palin snapped.

“I remember where I am,” Tanin repeated angrily. Getting to his feet, he walked over to stand in front of Palin, staring at him accusingly. “And I remember who brought us here! Riding through that accursed wood that damn near got us killed—”

“Nothing in Wayreth Forest will hurt you,” Palin returned, looking at the mess on the floor in disgust. “As I’d have told you if you’d only listened. This forest is controlled by the wizards in the tower. It protects them from unwanted intruders. We have been invited here. The trees let us pass without harm. The voices you heard whispered only the fears in your own heart. If s magic—”

“You listen, Palin,” Tanin interrupted in what Sturm always referred to as his Elder Brother voice. “Why don’t you just drop all this magic business? You’re hurting Father and Mother—Father most of all. You saw his face when we rode up to this place! The gods know what it must have cost him to come back here.”

Flushing, Palin turned away, biting his lip.

“Oh, lay off the kid, will you, Tanin?” Sturm said, seeing the pain on his younger brother’s face. Wiping ale from his pants, he somewhat shamefacedly began trying to put the table back together—a hopeless task, considering most of it was in splinters.

“You had the makings of a good swordsman once, Little Brother,” Tanin said persuasively, ignoring Sturm and putting his hand on Palin’s shoulder.

“C’mon, kid. Tell whoever’s out there”—Tanin waved his hand somewhat vaguely—“that you’ve changed your mind. We can leave this cursed place, then, and go home—”

“We have no idea why they asked us to come here,” Palin retorted, shaking off his brother’s hand. “It probably has nothing to do with me! Why should it?” he asked bitterly. “I’m still a student. It will be years before I am ready to take my test... thanks to Father and Mother,” he muttered beneath his breath.

Tanin did not hear it, but the unseen observer did.

“Yeah? And I’m a half-ogre,” retorted Tanin angrily. “Look at me when I’m talking, Palin—”

“Just leave me alone!”

“Hey, you two—” Sturm the peacemaker started to intervene when the three young men suddenly realized they were not alone in the room.

All quarrels forgotten, the brothers acted instantly. Sturm rose to his feet with the quickness of a cat. His hand on the hilt of his sword, he joined Tanin, who had already moved to stand protectively in front of the unarmed Palin. Like all magic-users, the young man carried neither sword nor shield nor wore armor. But his hand went to the dagger he wore concealed beneath his robes, his mind already forming the words of the few defensive spells he had been allowed to learn.

“Who are you?” Tanin asked harshly, staring at the man standing in the center of the locked room. “How did you get in here?”

“As to how I got here”—the man smiled expansively—“there are no walls in the Tower of High Sorcery for those who walk with magic. As for who I am, my name is Dunbar Mastersmate, of Northern Ergoth.”

“What do you want?” Sturm asked quietly.

“Want? Why—to make certain you are comfortable, that is all,” Dunbar answered. “I am your host—”

“You? A magic-user?” Tanin gaped, and even Palin seemed slightly startled.

In a world where wizards are noted for having more brains than brawn, this man was obviously the exception. Standing as tall as Tanin, he had a barrel of a chest that Caramon might well have envied. Muscles rippled beneath the shining black skin of his bare chest. His arms looked as though he could have picked up the stalwart Sturm and carried him about the room as easily as if he had been a child. He was not dressed in robes, but wore bright-colored, loose-fitting trousers. The only hint that he might have been a wizard at all came from the pouches that hung at his waist and a white sash that girdled his broad middle.

Dunbar laughed, booming laughter that set the dishes rattling.

“Aye,” he said, “I am a magic-user.” With that, he spoke a word of command, and the broken table, leaping to its legs, put itself back together with incredible speed. The ale vanished from the floor, and the cracked pitcher mended and floated up to rest on the table, where it was soon foaming with brew again. A roasted haunch of venison appeared, as did a loaf of fragrant bread, along with sundry other delicacies that caused Sturm’s mouth to water and cooled even Tanin’s ardor, though they did not allay his suspicions.

“Seat yourselves,” said Dunbar, “and let us eat. Do not worry about your father,” he added, as Tanin was about to speak. “He is in conference about important matters with the heads of the other two orders. Sit down! Sit down!” He grinned, white teeth flashing against his black skin. “Or shall I make you sit down... ?”

At this, Tanin let loose the hilt of his sword and pulled up a chair, though he did not eat but sat watching Dunbar warily. Sturm fell to with a good appetite, however. Only Palin remained standing, his hands folded in the sleeves of his white robes.

“Please, Palin,” said Dunbar more gently, looking at the young man, “be seated. Soon we will join your father, and you will discover the reason you have been brought here. In the meanwhile, I ask you to share bread and meat with me.”

“Thank you, master,” Palin said, bowing respectfully.

“Dunbar, Dunbar .. .” The man waved his hand. “You are my guests. We will not stand on formalities.”

Palin sat down and began to eat, but it was obvious he did so out of courtesy only. Dunbar and Sturm more than made up for him, however, and soon even Tanin was lured from his self-imposed role of protector by the delicious smells and the sight of the others enjoying themselves.

“You ... you said the heads of the other orders, mast—Dunbar,” Palin ventured. “Are you—”

“Head of the Order of White Robes. Yes.” Dunbar tore off a hunk of bread with his strong teeth and washed it down with a draft of ale, which he drank at one long swallow. “I took over when Par-Salian retired.”

“Head of the order?” Sturm looked at the big man in awe. “But—what kind of wizard are you? What do you do?”

“I’ll wager it’s more than pulling the wings off bats,” Tanin mumbled through a mouthful of meat.

Palin appeared shocked, and frowned at his older brother. But Dunbar only laughed again. “You’re right there!” he said with an oath. “I am a sea wizard. My father was a ship’s captain and his father before him. I had no use for captaining vessels. My skills lay in magic, but my heart was with the sea, and there I returned. Now I sail the waves and use my art to summon the wind or quell the storm. I can leave the enemy becalmed so that we may outrun him, or I can cast bursting flame onto his decks if we attack. And, when necessary”—Dunbar grinned—“I can take my turn at the bilge pump or turn the capstan with the best of them. Keeps me fit.” He pounded himself on his broad chest. “I understand you two”—he looked at Sturm and Tanin—“have returned from fighting the minotaurs who have been raiding the coast up north. I, too, have been involved in trying to stop those pirates. Tell me, did you—?”

The three were soon deeply involved in discussion. Even Tanin warmed to the subject, and was soon describing in vivid detail the ambush that had stopped the minotaurs from leveling the city of Kalaman. Dunbar listened attentively, asking intelligent questions, making comments, and appearing to enjoy himself very much.

But though the wizard’s shrewd gaze was concentrated on the warrior brothers, his attention was in truth on the youngest.

Seeing the three deep in conversation and himself apparently forgotten, Palin thankfully gave up all pretense of eating and went back to staring into the fire, never noticing Dunbar watching him.

The young man’s face was pale and thoughtful, the slender hands twisted together in his lap. So lost in his thoughts was he that his lips moved and, though he did not speak aloud, one other person in the room heard the words.

“Why have they brought me here? Can they read the secrets of my heart? Will they tell my father?”

And, finally, “How can I hurt him, who has suffered so much already?”

Nodding to himself as if he had found the answer to some unasked question, Dunbar sighed and turned his complete attention back to fighting minotaurs.

Chapter Three

“You’re wrong,” said Caramon calmly. “My brother is dead.”

Raising his eyebrows, Justarius glanced at Dalamar, who shrugged. Of all the reactions they had been prepared for, this calm refutal had not been one of them, apparently. His expression grave, seeming uncertain what to say, Justarius looked back at Caramon.

“You talk as though you have proof.”

“I have,” said Caramon.

“May I ask what?” Dalamar inquired sarcastically. “The Portal to the Abyss dosed, after all-dosed with your brother’s help—leaving him trapped on the other side.” The dark elf’s voice dropped. “Her Dark Majesty would not kill him. Raistlin prevented her entry into this world. Her rage would know no bounds. She would take delight in tormenting him eternally. Death would have been Raistlin’s salvation.”

“And so it was,” said Caramon softly.

“Sentimental drivel—” Dalamar began impatiently, but Justarius once again laid his hand upon the dark elf’s arm, and the black-robed mage lapsed into seething silence.

“I hear certainty in your voice, Caramon,” Justarius said earnestly. “You have knowledge, obviously, that we do not. Share this with us. I know this is painful for you, but we face a decision of grave importance, and this may influence our actions.”

Caramon hesitated, frowning. “Does this have something to do with my son?”

“Yes,” Justarius replied.

Caramon’s face darkened. His gaze went to his sword, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, his hand absently fingering the hilt. “Then I will tell you,” he said, speaking reluctantly, yet in a firm, low voice, “what I have never told anyone—not my wife, not Tanis, not anyone.” He was silent a moment more, collecting his thoughts. Then, swallowing and brushing his hand across his eyes, keeping his gaze on the sword, he began. “I was numb after ... after what happened in the tower in Palanthas. I couldn’t think. I didn’t want to think.

“It was easier to go through the day like a sleepwalker. I moved, I talked, but I didn’t feel. It was easy.” He shrugged. “There was a lot to do to keep me occupied. The dry was in ruins. Dalamar”—he glanced briefly at the dark elf—“was nearly dead, Revered Daughter Crysania hurt badly. Then there was Tas—stealing that floating citadel.” In spite of himself, Caramon smiled, remembering the antics of the merry kender. But the smile—soon faded.

Shaking his head, he continued.

“I knew that someday I’d have to think about Raistlin. I’d have to sort it out in my mind.” Raising his head, Caramon looked at Justarius directly. “I had to make myself understand what Raistlin was, what he had done. I came to face the fact that he was evil, truly evil, that he had jeopardized the entire world in his lust for power, that innocent people had suffered and died because of him.”

“And for this, of course, he was granted salvation!” Dalamar sneered.

“Wait!” Caramon raised his hand, flushing. “I came to realize something else. I loved Raistlin. He was my brother, my twin. We were close—no one knows how close.” The big man could not go on, but stared down at his sword, frowning, until, drawing a shaking breath, he raised his head again. “Raistlin did some good in his life. Without him, we couldn’t have defeated the dragonarmies. He cared for those who ... who were wretched, sick... like himself. But even that, I know, wouldn’t have saved him at the end.” Caramon’s lips pressed together firmly as he blinked back his tears. “When I met him in the Abyss, he was near victory, as you well know. He had only to reenter the portal, draw the Dark Queen through it, and then he would be able to defeat her and take her place. He would achieve his dream of becoming a god. But in so doing, he would destroy the world. My journey into the future showed that to me—and I showed the future to him. Raistlin would become a god—but he would rule over a dead world. He knew then that he couldn’t return. He had doomed himself. He knew the risks he faced, however, when he entered the Abyss.”

“Yes,” said Justarius quietly. “And, in his ambition, he chose freely to take those risks. What is it you are trying to say?”

“Just this,” Caramon returned. “Raistlin made a mistake, a terrible, tragic mistake. And he did what few of us can do—he had courage enough to admit it and try to do what he could to rectify it, even though it meant sacrificing himself.”

“You have grown in wisdom over the years, Caramon Majere. What you say is convincing.” Justarius regarded Caramon with new respect, even as the archmage shook his head sadly.

“Still, this is a question for philosophers toargue. It is not proof. Forgive me for pressing you, Caramon, but—”

“I spent a month at Tanis’s, before I went home,” Caramon continued as if he hadn’t heard the interruption. “It was in his quiet, peaceful home that I thought about all this. It was there that I first had to come to grips with the fact that my brother—my companion since birth, the person that I loved better than anyone else on this world—was gone. Lost. For all I knew, trapped in horrible torment. I... I thought, more than once, about taking the edge off my pain with dwarf spirits again.” Caramon closed his eyes, shuddering. “One day, when I didn’t think I could live anymore without going mad, I went into my room and locked the door. Taking out my sword, I looked at it, thinking how easy it would be to ... to escape. I lay on my bed, fully intending to kill myself. Instead, I fell into an exhausted sleep. I don’t know how long I slept, but when I woke up, it was night. Everything was quiet, Solinari’s silver light shone in the window, and I was filled with a sense of inexpressible peace. I wondered why ... and then I saw him.”

“Saw who?” Justarius asked, exchanging quick glances with Dalamar.

“Raistlin?”

“Yes.”

The faces of the two wizards grew grim.

“I saw him,” said Caramon gently, “lying beside me, asleep, just like when... when we were young. He had terrible dreams sometimes. He’d wake, weeping, from them. I’d comfort him and... and make him laugh. Then he’d sigh, lay his head on my arm, and fall asleep. That’s how I saw him—”

“A dream!” Dalamar scoffed.

“No.” Caramon shook his head resolutely. “It was too real. I saw his face as I see yours. I saw his face as I had seen it last, in the Abyss. Only now the terrible lines of pain, the twisted marks of greed and evil were gone, leaving it smooth and... at rest—like Crysania said. It was the face of my brother, my twin... not the stranger he’d become.” Caramon wiped his eyes again. “The next day, I was able to go home, knowing that everything was all right.... For the first time in my life, I believed in Paladine. I knew that he understood Raistlin and judged him mercifully, accepting his sacrifice.”

“He has you there, Justarius,” boomed a voice from out of the shadows. “What do you say to faith like that?”

Looking around quickly, Caramon saw four figures materialize out of the shadows of the vast chamber. Three he recognized and, even in this grim place, with its storehouse of memories, his eyes blurred again, only these were tears of pride as he looked upon his sons. The older two, armor clanking and swords rattling, appeared somewhat subdued, he noticed. Not unusual, he thought grimly, considering all they had heard about the tower, both in legend and family history. Then, too, they felt about magic the way he himself felt—both disliked and distrusted it. The two stood protectively, as usual, one on each side of Caramon’s third son, their younger brother.

It was this youngest son that Caramon looked at anxiously as they entered.

Dressed in his white robes, Palin approached the head of the conclave with his head bowed, his eyes on the floor, as was proper for one of his low rank and station. Having just turned twenty, he wasn’t even an apprentice yet and probably wouldn’t be until he was twenty-five at least. That is the age when magic-users in Krynn may choose to take the Test—the grueling examination of their skills and talents in the Art, which all must pass before they can acquire more advanced and dangerous knowledge. Because magicians wield such great power, the Test is designed to weed out those who are unskilled or who do not take their art seriously. It does this very effectively—failure means death. There is no turning back. Once a young man or woman of any race—elven, human, ogre—decides to enter the Tower of High Sorcery with the intent of taking the Test—he or she commits body and soul to the magic. Palin seemed unusually troubled and serious, just as he had on their journey to the tower—almost as if he were about to take the Test himself. But that’s ridiculous, Caramon reminded himself sternly. The boy is too young.

Granted, Raistlin took the Test at this age, but that was because the conclave needed him. Raistlin was strong in his magic, excelling in the Art, and—even so—the Test had nearly killed him. Caramon could still see his twin lying on the bloodstained stone floor of the tower... He clenched his fist. No! Palin is intelligent, he is skilled, but he’s not ready. He’s too young.

“Besides,” Caramon muttered beneath his breath, “give him a few more years, and he may decide to drop this notion....”

As if aware of his father’s worried scrutiny, Palin raised his head slightly and gave him a reassuring smile. Caramon smiled back, feeling better.

Maybe this weird place had opened his son’s eyes.

As the four approached the semicircle of chairs where Justarius and Dalamar sat, Caramon kept a sharp eye on them. Seeing that his boys were well and acting as they were supposed to act (his oldest two tended to be a bit boisterous on occasion), the big man finally relaxed and studied the fourth figure, the one who had spoken to Justarius about faith.

He was an unusual sight. Caramon couldn’t remember having seen anything stranger, and he’d traveled most of the continent of Ansalon. This man was from Northern Ergoth, that much Caramon could tell by the black skin—the mark of that seafaring race. He was dressed like a sailor, too, except for the pouches on his belt and the white sash around his waist. His voice was that of one accustomed to shouting commands over the crashing of waves and the roaring of wind. So strong was this impression that Caramon glanced around somewhat uncertainly. He wouldn’t have been the least surprised to see a ship under full sail materialize behind him.

“Caramon Majere, I take it,” the man said, coming over to Caramon, who had risen awkwardly to his feet. Gripping Caramon’s hand with a firmness that made the big man open his eyes wide, the man grinned and introduced himself. “Dunbar Mastersmate of Northern Ergoth, head of the Order of White Robes.”

Caramon gaped. “A mage?” he said wonderingly, shaking hands.

Dunbar laughed. “Exactly your sons' reaction. Yes, I’ve been visiting with your boys instead of doing my duty here, I’m afraid. Fine lads. The oldest two have been with the knights, I understand, fighting minotaurs near Kalaman. We came close to meeting there. That’s what kept me so long.” He glanced in apology at Justarius. “My ship was in Palanthas for repairs to damage taken fighting those same pirates. I am a sea wizard,” Dunbar added by way of explanation, noticing Caramon’s slightly puzzled look. “By the gods, but your boys take after you!” He laughed, and, reaching out, shook Caramon’s hand again.

Caramon grinned back. Everything would be all right, now that these wizards understood about Raistlin. He could take his boys and go home.

Caramon suddenly became aware that Dunbar was regarding him intently, almost as if he could see the thoughts in his mind. The wizard’s face grew serious. Shaking his head slightly, Dunbar turned and walked across the chamber with rapid, rolling strides, as though on the deck of his ship, to take his seat to the right of Justarius.

“Well,” said Caramon, fumbling with the hilt of his sword, his confidence shaken by the look on the wizard’s face. All three were staring at him now, their expressions solemn. Caramon’s face hardened in resolve. “I guess that"s that. You’ve heard what I’ve had to say about.. . about Raistlin....”

“Yes,” said Dunbar. “We all heard, some of us—I believe—for the first time."

The sea wizard glanced meaningfully at Palin, who was staring at the floor.

Clearing his throat nervously, Caramon continued. “I guess we’ll be on our way.”

The wizards exchanged looks. Justarius appeared uncomfortable, Dalamar stern, Dunbar sad. But none of them said anything. Bowing, Caramon turned to leave and was just motioning to his sons when Dalamar, with an irritated gesture, rose to his feet.

“You cannot go, Caramon,” the dark elf said. “There is still much to discuss.”

“Then say what you have to say!” Caramon stated angrily, turning back around to face the wizards.

“I will say it, since these two”—he cast a scathing glance at his fellow wizards—“are squeamish about challenging such devoted faith as you have proclaimed. Perhaps they have forgotten the grave danger we faced twenty-five years ago. I haven’t.” His hand strayed to the torn robes. “I never can. My fears cannot be dispelled by a 'vision/ no matter how touching.” His lip curled derisively. “Sit down, Caramon. Sit down and hear the truth these two fear to speak.”

“I do not fear to speak it, Dalamar.” Justarius spoke in rebuking tones. “I was thinking about the story Caramon related, its bearing upon the matter—”

The dark elf snorted, but—at a piercing look from his superior—he sat back down, wrapping his black robes around him. Caramon remained standing, however, frowning and glancing from one wizard to the other. Behind him, he heard the jingle of armor as his two older boys shifted uncomfortably. This place made them nervous, just as it did him. He wanted to turn on his heel and walk out, never returning to the tower that had been the scene of so much pain and heartbreak.

By the gods, he’d do it! Let them try to stop him! Caramon clasped the hilt of his sword and took a step backward, glancing around at his sons. The two older boys moved to leave. Only Palin remained standing still, a grave, thoughtful expression on his face that Caramon could not read. It reminded him of someone, though. Caramon could almost hear Raistlin’s whispering voice, “Go if you want to, my dear brother. Lose yourself in the magical Forest of Wayreth, as you most surely will without me. I intend to remain ...”

No. He would not hear his son say those words. Flushing, his heart constricting painfully, Caramon seated himself heavily in the chair. “Say what you have to say,” he repeated.

“Almost thirty years ago, Raistlin Majere came to this tower to take his test,"

Justarius began. “Once inside the tower, taking his test, he was contacted by—”

“We know that,” Caramon growled.

“Some of us do,” Justarius replied. “Some of us do not.” His gaze went to Palin. “Or at least, they do not know the entire story. The Test was difficult for Raistlin—it is difficult for all of us who take it, isn’t it?”

Dalamar did not speak, but his pale face went a shade paler, and the slanted eyes were clouded. All traces of laughter had vanished from Dunbar’s face.

His gaze went to Palin, and he almost imperceptibly shook his head.

“Yes,” Justarius continued softly, absently rubbing his leg with his hand as though it pained him. “The Test is difficult, but it is not impossible. Par-Salian and the heads of the orders would not have granted Raistlin permission to take it—as young as he was—if they had not deemed it likely that he would succeed.

And he would have! Yes, Caramon! There is not a doubt in my mind or in the minds of any who were present that day and witnessed it. Your twin had the strength and the skill to succeed on his own. But he chose the easy way, the sure way—he accepted the help of an evil wizard, the greatest of our orders who ever lived—Fistandantilus.

“Fistandantilus,” Justarius repeated, his eyes on Palin. “His magic having gone awry, he died at Skullcap Mountain. But he was powerful enough to defeat death itself. His spirit survived on another plane, waiting to find a body it could inhabit. And it found that body....”

Caramon sat silently, his eyes fixed on Justarius, his face red, his jaw muscles stiff. He felt a hand on his shoulder and, glancing up, saw Palin, who had come to stand behind him. Leaning down, Palin whispered, “We can go, Father. I’m sorry. I was wrong to make you come. We don’t have to listen . ..”

Justarius sighed. “Yes, young mage, you do have to listen, I am afraid. You must hear the truth!”

Palin started, flushing at hearing his words repeated. Reaching up, Caramon gripped his son’s hand reassuringly. “We know the truth,” he growled. “That evil wizard took my brother’s soul! And you mages let him!”

“No, Caramon!” Justarius’s fist clenched, and his gray brows drew together.

“Raistlin made a deliberate choice to turn his back upon the light and embrace the darkness. Fistandantilus gave him the power to pass the Test and, in exchange, Raistlin gave Fistandantilus part of his life-force in order to help the lich’s spirit survive. That is what shattered his body—not the Test. Raistlin said it himself, Caramon! 'This is the sacrifice I made for my magic!' How many times have you heard him say those words!”

“Enough!” Scowling, Caramon stood up. “It was Par-Salian’s fault. No matter what evil my twin did after that, you mages started him down the path he eventually walked.”

Motioning to his sons, Caramon turned upon his heel and walked rapidly from the chamber, heading for what he hoped (in this strange place) was the way out.

“No!” Justarius rose unsteadily to his feet, unable to put his full weight upon his crippled left leg. But his voice was powerful, thundering through the chamber. “Listen and understand, Caramon Majere! You must, or you will regret it bitterly!”

Caramon stopped. Slowly, he turned around, but only halfway. “Is this a threat?” he asked, glaring at Justarius over his shoulder.

“No threat, at least not one we make,” Justarius said. “Think, Caramon! Don’t you see the danger? It happened once. It can happen again!”

“I don’t understand,” Caramon said stubbornly, his hand on his sword, still considering.

Like a snake uncoiling to strike, Dalamar leaned forward in his chair. “Yes, you do!” His voice was soft and lethal. “You understand. Don’t ask for us to tell you details, for we cannot. But know this—by certain signs we have seen and certain contacts we have made in realms beyond this one, we have reason to believe that Raistlin lives—much as did Fistandantilus. He seeks a way back into this world. He needs a body to inhabit. And you, his beloved twin, have thoughtfully provided him with one—young, strong, and already trained in magic.”

Dalamar’s words sank into Caramon’s flesh like poisoned fangs. “Your son..."

Chapter Four

Justarius resumed his seat, easing himself into the great stone chair carefully. Smoothing the folds of his red robes about him with hands that looked remarkably young for his age, he spoke to Caramon, though his eyes were on the white-robed young man standing at his father’s side. “Thus you see, Caramon Majere, that we cannot possibly let your son—Raistlin’s nephew—continue to study magic and take the Test without first making certain that his uncle cannot use this young man to gain entry back into the world.”

“Especially,” added Dunbar gravely, “since the young man’s loyalties to one particular order have yet to be established.”

“What do you mean?” Caramon frowned. “Take the Test? He’s a long way from taking the Test. And as for his loyalties, he chose to wear the White Robes—”

“You and Mother chose that I wear the White Robes,” Palin said evenly, his eyes staring straight ahead, avoiding his father. When only hurt silence answered him, Palin made an irritated gesture. “Oh, come now, Father. You know as well as I do that you wouldn’t have considered letting me study magic under any other conditions. I knew better than to even ask!”

“But the young man must declare the allegiance that is in his heart. Only then can he use the true power of his magic. And he must do this during his test,” Dunbar said gently.

“Test! What is this talk of the Test! I tell you, he hasn’t even made up his mind whether or not to take the damn thing. And if I have anything to say about it—” Caramon stopped speaking abruptly, his gaze going to his son’s face. Palin stared at the ground, his cheeks flushed, his lips pressed tightly together.

“Well, never mind that,” Caramon muttered, drawing a deep breath. Behind him, he could hear his other two sons shuffling nervously, the rattle of Tanin’s sword, Sturm’s soft cough. He was acutely aware, too, of the wizards watching him, especially of Dalamar’s cynical smile. If only he and Palin could be alone! He’d have a chance to explain. Caramon sighed. It was something they should have talked about before this, he supposed. But he kept hoping....

Turning his back on the wizards, he faced his son. “What other loyalty would you choose, Palin?” he asked belatedly, trying to make amends.

“You’re a good person, Son! You enjoy helping people, serving others! White seems obvious....”

“I don’t know whether I enjoy serving others or not,” Palin cried impatiently, losing control. “You thrust me into this role, and look where it has gotten me! You admit yourself that I am not as strong or skilled in magic as my uncle was at my age. That was because he devoted his life to study! He let nothing interfere with it. It seems to me a man must put the magic first, the world second....”

Closing his eyes in pain, Caramon listened to his son’s words, but he heard them spoken by another voice—a soft, whispering voice, a shattered voice: a

man must put the magic first, the world second. By doing anything else, he

limits himself and his potential—He felt a hand grasp his arm. “Father, I’m sorry,” Palin said softly. “I would have discussed it with you, but I knew how much it would hurt you. And then there’s Mother.” The young man sighed. “You know Mother....”

“Yes,” said Caramon in a choked voice, reaching out and grasping his son in his big arms, “I know your mother.” Clearing his throat, he tried to smile.

“She might have thrown something at you—she did me once—most of my armor, as I recall. But her aim is terrible, especially when if s someone she loves.”

Caramon couldn’t go on for a moment, but stood holding his son. Looking over his shoulder at the wizards, he asked harshly, “Is this necessary right now? Let us go home and talk about it. Why can’t we wait—”

“Because this night there is a rare occurrence,” Justarius answered. “The silver moon, the black, and the red are all three in the sky at the same time. The power of magic is stronger this night than it has been in a century. If Raistlin has the ability to call upon the magic and escape the Abyss—it could be on a night like this.”

Caramon bowed his head, his hand stroking his son’s auburn hair. Then, his arm around Palin’s shoulder, he turned to face the wizards, his face grim.

“Very well,” he said huskily, “what do you want us to do?”

“You must return with me to the tower in Palanthas,” said Dalamar. “And there, we will attempt to enter the portal.”

“Let us ride as far as the Shoikan Grove with you, Father,” Tanin pleaded.

“Yes!” added Sturm eagerly. “You’ll need us, you know you will. The road between here and Palanthas is open—the knights see to that—but we’ve had reports from Porthios of draconian parties lying in ambush—”

“I am sorry to disappoint you, warriors,” said Dalamar, a slight smile upon his lips, “but we will not be using the roads between here and Palanthas. Conventional roads, that is,” he amended.

Both the young men looked confused. Glancing warily at the dark elf, Tanin frowned as though he suspected a trick.

Palin patted Tanin’s arm. “He means magic, my brother. Before you and Sturm reach the front entryway, Father and I will be standing in Dalamar’s study in the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas—the tower my uncle claimed as his own,” he added softly. Palin had not meant anyone to hear his last words, but—glancing around—he caught Dalamar’s intense, knowing gaze. Flushing in confusion, the young man fell silent.

“Yes, that’s where we’ll be,” muttered Caramon, his face darkening at the thought. “And you two will be on your way home,” he added, eyeing his older sons sternly. “You have to tell your mother—”

“I’d rather face ogres,” said Tanin gloomily.

“Me, too,” Caramon said with a grin that ended in a sigh. Leaning down suddenly to make certain his pack was cinched tightly, he kept his face carefully in the shadows. “Just make certain she’s not standing where she can get hold of the crockery,” he said, keeping his voice carefully light.

“She knows me. She’s been expecting this. In fact, I think she knew when we left,” Palin said, remembering his mother’s tender hug and cheery smile as she stood at the door to the inn, waving at them with an old towel.

Glancing behind him as they had been riding out of town, Palin recalled seeing that towel cover his mother’s face, Dezra’s arms going around her comfortingly.

“Besides,” said Caramon, standing up to glare at his older two sons, his tone now severe, “you both promised Porthios you’d go to Qualinesti and help the elves handle those draconian raiding parties. You know what Porthios is like. It took him ten years to even speak to us. Now he’s showing signs of being friendly. I won’t have sons of mine going back on their word, especially to that stiff-necked elf. No offense,” he said, glancing at Dalamar.

“None taken,” said the dark elf. “I know Porthios. And now—”

“We’re ready,” interrupted Palin, an eager look on his face as he turned to Dalamar. “I’ve read about this spell you’re going to cast, of course, but I’ve never seen it done. What components do you use? And do you inflect the first syllable of the first word, or the second? My master says—”

Dalamar coughed gently. “You are giving away our secrets, young one,” he said in smooth tones. “Come, speak your questions to me in private."

Placing his delicate hand upon Palin’s arm, the dark elf drew the young man away from his father and brothers.

“Secrets?” said Palin, mystified. “What do you mean? It doesn’t matter if they hear—”

“That was an excuse,” Dalamar said coldly. Standing in front of the young man, he looked at Palin intently, his eyes dark and serious. “Palin, don’t do this. Return home with your father and brothers.”

“What do you mean?” Palin asked, staring at Dalamar in confusion. “I can’t do that. You heard Justarius. They won’t let me take my test or even keep on studying until we know for certain that Raistlin is ... is ...”

“Don’t take the Test,” Dalamar said swiftly. “Give up your studies. Go home. Be content with what you are.”

“No!” Palin said angrily. “What do you take me for? Do you think I’d be happy entertaining at country fairs, pulling rabbits out of hats and golden coins out of fat men’s ears? I want more than that!”

“The price of such ambition is great, as your uncle dis covered.”

“And so are the rewards!” Palin returned. “I have made up my mind ...”

“Young one”—Dalamar leaned close to the young man, placing his cold hand upon Palin’s arm. His voice dropped to a whisper so soft that Palin wasn’t certain he heard its words spoken or in his mind—“why do you think they are sending you—truly?” His gaze went to Justarius and Dunbar, who were standing apart, conferring together. 'To somehow enter the portal and find your uncle—or what's left of him? No”— Dalamar shook his head—“that is impossible. The room is locked. One of the Guardians stands constant watch with instructions to let no one in, to kill any who tries. They know that, just as they know Raistlin lives! They are sending you to the tower—his tower—for one reason. Do you recall the old legend about using a young goat to net a dragon?”

Staring at Dalamar in disbelief, Palin’s face suddenly drained of all color. Licking his ashen lips, he tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry, his throat tight.

“I see you understand,” Dalamar said coolly, folding h is hands in the sleeves of his black robes. “The hunter tethers the young goat in front of the dragon’s lair. While the dragon devours the goat, the hunters sneak up on him with their nets and their spears. They catch the dragon. Unfortunately, it is a bit late for the goat.. . . Do you still insist on going?”

Palin had a sudden vision of his uncle as he had heard of him in the legends: facing the evil Fistandantilus, feeling the touch of the bloodstone upon his chest as it sought to draw out his soul, suck out his life. The young man shivered, his body drenched in chill sweat. “I am strong,” he said, his voice cracking. “I can fight as he fought—”

“Fight him? The greatest wizard who ever lived? The archmage who challenged the Queen of Darkness herself and nearly won?” Dalamar laughed mirthlessly. “Bah! You are doomed, young man. You haven’t a prayer. And you know what I will be forced to do if Raistlin succeeds!” Dalamar’s hooded head darted so near Palin that the young man could feel the touch of breath on his cheek. “I must destroy him—I will destroy him. I don’t care whose body he inhabits. That’s why they’re giving you to me. They don’t have the stomach for it.”

Unnerved, Palin took a step back from the dark elf. Then he caught himself, and stood still.

“I. . . understand,” he said, his voice growing firmer as he continued. “I told you that once. Besides, I don’t believe my uncle would harm me in ... the way you say.”

“You don’t?” Dalamar appeared amused. His hand moved to his chest.

“Would you like to see what harm your uncle is capable of doing?”

“No!” Palin averted his eyes, then, flushing, he added lamely, “I know about it. I’ve heard the story. You betrayed him—”

“And this was my punishment.” The dark elf shrugged. “Very well. If you are determined—”

“I am.”

“—then I suggest you bid farewell to your brothers—a final farewell, if you take my meaning. For I deem it unlikely that you will meet again in this life.”

The dark elf was matter-of-fact. His eyes held no pity, no remorse. Palin’s hands twitched, his nails dug into his flesh, but he managed to nod firmly.

“You must be careful what you say.” Dalamar glanced meaningfully at Caramon, who was walking over to Justarius. “Your brothers mustn’t suspect. He mustn’t suspect. If he knew, he would prevent your going. Wait”—Dalamar caught hold of the young man—“pull yourself together.”

Swallowing, trying to moisten a throat that was parched and aching, Palin pinched his cheeks to bring the color back and wiped the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his robe. Then, biting his lips to keep them steady, he turned from Dalamar and walked over to his brothers.

His white robes rustled around his ankles as he approached them. “Well, Brothers,” he began, forcing himself to smile, “I’m always standing on the porch of the inn, waving good-bye to you two, going off to fight something or other. Looks like if s my turn now.”

Palin saw Tanin and Sturm exchange swift, alarmed glances, and he choked. The three were close; they knew each other inside out. How can I fool them? he thought bitterly. Seeing their faces, he knew he hadn’t.

“My brothers,” Palin said softly, reaching out his hands. Clasping hold of both of them, he drew them near. “Don’t say anything,” he whispered. “Just let me go! Father wouldn’t understand. It’s going to be hard enough for him as it is.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Tanin began severely.

“Oh, shut up!” Sturm muttered. “So we don’t understand. Does it matter? Did our little brother blubber when you went off to your first battle?” Putting his big arms around Palin, he hugged him tightly. “Good-bye, kid,” he said.

“Take care of yourself and... and ... don’t be gone ...long....” Shaking his head, Sturm turned and walked hurriedly away, wiping his eye and muttering something about “those damn spell components make me sneeze!”

But Tanin, the oldest, remained standing beside his brother, staring at him sternly. Palin looked up at him pleadingly, but Tanin’s face grew grim. “No, Little Brother,” he said. “You’re going to listen.”

Dalamar, watching the two closely, saw the young warrior put his hand on Palin’s shoulder. He could guess what was being said. The dark elf saw Palin drawn away, shaking his head stubbornly, the young man’s features hardening into an impassive mask that Dalamar knew well. The wizard’s hand went to the wounds in his chest. How like Raistlin the young man was! Like, yet different, as Caramon had said, as different as the white moon and the black.... The dark elf’s thoughts were interrupted when he noticed that Caramon had observed the conversation between his two sons, and was taking a step toward them. Quickly, Dalamar interceded. Walking over to Caramon, he placed his slender hand on the big man’s arm.

“You have not told your children the truth about their uncle,” Dalamar said as Caramon glanced at him.

“I’ve told them,” Caramon retorted, his face flushing, “as much as I thought they should know. I tried to make them see both sides of him....”

“You have done them a disservice, particularly one of them,” Dalamar replied coldly, his glance going to Palin.

“What could I do?” Caramon asked angrily. “When the legends started about him—sacrificing himself for the sake of the world, daring to go into the Abyss to rescue Lady Crysania from the dutches of the Dark Queen—what could I say? I told them how it was. I told them the true story. I told them that he lied to Crysania, that he seduced her in spirit, if not in body, and led her into the Abyss. And I told them that, at the end, when she was of no more use to him, he abandoned her to let her die alone. I told them. Tanis has told them. But they believe what they want to believe. We all do, I guess,” Caramon added with an accusing glance at Dalamar. “I notice you mages don’t go out of your way to refute those stories!”

“They’ve done us good,” Dalamar said, shrugging his slender shoulders. “Because of the legends about Raistlin and his 'sacrifice,' magic is no longer feared, we wizards no longer reviled. Our schools are flourishing, our services in demand. The city of Kalaman has actually invited us to build a new Tower of High Sorcery there.” The dark elf smiled bitterly. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“By his failure, your brother succeeded in what he set out to accomplish,"

Dalamar remarked, his smile twisting. “In a way, he has become a god....”

“Palin, I insist on knowing what’s going on.” Tanin laid his hand on Palin’s shoulder.

“You heard them, Tanin,” Palin hedged, nodding toward Justarius, who was talking with his father. “We’re going to travel to the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas, where the portal is located, and ... and look in. That"s all.”

“And I’m a gully dwarf!” growled Tanin.

“Sometimes you think like one,” Palin snapped, losing his patience and thrusting his brother’s arm away.

Tanin’s face flushed a dull red. Unlike the easygoing Sturm, Tanin had inherited his mother’s temper along with her curls. He also took his role of Elder Brother seriously, too seriously sometimes to Palin’s mind. But it’s only because he loves me, the young man reminded himself.

Drawing a deep breath, he sighed and, reaching out, clasped his brother by the shoulders. “Tanin, you listen to me for a change. Sturm’s right. I didn’t 'blubber' when you went off to battle that first time. At least not when you could see me. But I cried all night, alone, in the darkness. Don’t you think I know that each time you leave may be the last time we ever see each other? How many times have you been wounded? That last fight, that minotaur arrow missed your heart by only two fingerbreadths.”

Tanin, his face dark, stared down at his feet. “That’s different,” he muttered.

“As Grandpa Tas would say, 'A chicken with its neck wrung is different from a chicken with its head cut off, but does it matter to the chicken?' ” Palin smiled.

Tanin shrugged and tried to grin. “I guess you’re right.” He put his hands on Palin’s shoulders, looking intently into his brother’s pale face. “Come home, kid! Give this up!” he whispered fiercely. “It isn’t worth it! If anything happened to you, think of what it would do to Mother ... and Father....”

“I know,” Palin said, his eyes filling despite all his best efforts to prevent it.

“I have thought of that! I must do this, Tanin. Try to understand. Tell Mother I... I love her very much. And the little girls. Tell them I’ll... I’ll bring them a present, like you and Sturm always do ...”

“What? A dead lizard?” Tanin growled. “Some moldy old bat’s wing?”

Wiping his eyes, Palin smiled. “Yeah, tell 'em that. You better go. Dad’s watching us.”

“Watch yourself, Little Brother. And him.” Tanin glanced at his father. “This will be pretty tough on him.”

“I know.” Palin sighed. “Believe me, I know.”

Tanin hesitated. Palin saw one more lecture, one more attempt to dissuade him, in his brother’s eyes.

“Please, Tanin,” he said softly. “No more.”

Blinking rapidly and rubbing his nose, Tanin nodded. Cuffing his little brother on the cheek and ruffling the auburn hair, Tanin walked across the shadowy chamber to stand near the entryway with Sturm.

Palin watched him walk away, then, turning, he went the opposite direction, toward the front of the great hall, to bid his parting respects to the two wizards.

“So Dalamar has spoken to you,” Justarius said as the young man came to stand before him.

“Yes,” said Palin grimly. "He has told me the truth.”

“Has he?” Dunbar asked suddenly. “Remember this, young one. Dalamar wears the Black Robes. He is ambitious. Whatever he does, he does because he believes it will ultimately benefit him.”

“Can you two deny what he told me is true? That you are using me as bait to trap my uncle’s spirit if it still lives?”

Justarius glanced at Dunbar, who shook his head.

“Sometimes you have to look for the truth here, Palin,” Dunbar said in answer, reaching out his hand to touch Palin gently on the chest, “in your heart.”

His lip curled in derision, but Palin knew what respect he must show two such high-ranking wizards, so he simply bowed. “Dalamar and my father are waiting for me. I bid you both farewell. The gods willing, I will return in a year or two for my test, and I hope I will have the honor o f seeing you both again.”

Justarius did not miss the sarcasm, nor the bitter, angry expression on the young man’s face. It made him recall another bitter, angry young man, who had come to this tower almost thirty years ago....

“May Gilean go with you, Palin,” the archmage said softly, folding his hands in the sleeves of his robes.

“May Paladine, the god you are named for, guide you, Palin,” Dunbar said.

“And consider this,” he added, a smile creasing his black face, “in case you never see the old sea wizard again. You may learn that, by serving the world, you serve yourself best of all.”

Palin did not reply. Bowing again, he turned and left them. The chamber seemed to grow darker as he walked back across it. He might have been alone; he could see no one for a moment, not his brothers, not Dalamar or his father... but as the darkness deepened, the white of his robes gleamed more brightly, like the first star in the evening sky.

For an instant, fear assailed Palin. Had they all left him? Was he alone in this vast darkness? Then he saw a glint of metal near him—his father’s armor, and he breathed a sigh of relief. His steps hurried and, as he came to stand beside his father, the chamber seemed to lighten. He could see the dark elf, standing next to Caramon, the elf’s pale face all that was visible from the shadows of his black robes. Palin could see his brothers, could see them lift their hands in farewell. Palin started to raise his, but then Dalamar began chanting, and it seemed a dark cloud covered the light of Palin’s robes, of Caramon’s shining armor. The darkness grew thicker, swirling around them until it was so deep that it was a hole of blackness cut into the shadows of the chamber. Then there was nothing. The cold, eerie light returned to the tower, filling up the gap.

Dalamar, Palin, and Caramon were gone.

The two brothers left behind shouldered their packs"and began the long, strange journey back through the magical Forest of Wayreth. Thoughts of breaking this news to their red-haired, fiery-tempered, loving mother hung around their hearts with the weight of dwarven armor.

Behind them, standing beside the great stone chairs, Justarius and Dunbar watched in grim silence. Then, each speaking a word of magic, they, too, were gone, and the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth was left to its shadows, and only memories walked the halls.

Chapter Five

“He came in the middle of a still black night,” Dalamar said softly. “The only moon in the sky was one his eyes alone could see.” The dark elf glanced at Palin from the depths of the black hood that covered the elf’s head. “Thus runs the legend about your uncle’s return to this tower.”

Palin said nothing—the words were in his heart. They had been there, secretly, ever since he was old enough to dream. In awe, he looked up at the huge gates that barred the entrance, trying to imagine his uncle standing where he now stood, commanding the gates to open. And when they did.... Palin’s gaze went further upward to the dark tower itself.

It was daylight in Palanthas. It had been midmorning when they had left the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth, hundreds of miles to the south. And it was midmorning still, their magical journey having taken them no more than the drawing of a breath. The sun was at its zenith, shining right above the tower.

Two of the blood-red minarets atop the tower held a golden orb between them, like bloodstained fingers greedily grasping a coin. And the sun might well have been nothing more than a coin for all the warmth it shed, for no sunshine ever warmed this place of evil. The huge black stone edifice—torn from the bones of the world by magic spells—stood in the shadow of the spellbound Shoikan Grove, a stand of massive oak trees that guarded the tower more effectively than if each tree had been a hundred knights-at-arms. So powerful was its dread enchantment that no one could even come near it. Unless protected by a dark charm, no one could enter and come out alive.

Turning his head, Palin glanced from the folds of his white hood at the grove’s tall trees. They stood unmoving, though he could feel the wind from the sea blowing strong upon his face. It was said that even the terrible hurricanes of the Cataclysm had not caused a leaf to flutter in the Shoikan Grove, though no other tree in the city remained standing.

A chill darkness flowed among the trunks of the oaks, reaching out with snaking tendrils of icy fog that slithered along the paved courtyard before the gates and writhed about the ankles of those who stood there.

Shivering with cold and a fear he could not control, a fear fed by the trees, Palin looked at his father with new respect. Driven by love for his twin, Caramon had dared enter the Shoikan Grove, and had very nearly paid for his love with his life.

He must be thinking of that, Palin thought, for his father’s face was pale and grim. Beads of sweat stood upon his forehead. “Let’s get out of here,"

Caramon said harshly, his eyes carefully avoiding the sight of the cursed trees.

“Go inside, or something....”

“Very well,” replied Dalamar. Though his face was hidden once again by the shadows of his hood, Palin had the impression the dark elf was smiling.

“Although there is no hurry. We must wait until nightfall, when the silver moon, Solinari, beloved of Paladine, the black moon, Nuitari, favored by the Dark Queen, and Lunitari, the red moon of Gilean, are in the sky together. Raistlin will draw upon the black moon for his power. Others—who might need it—may draw upon Solinari—if they choose....” He did not look at Palin as he spoke, but the young man felt himself flush.

“What do mean—draw upon its power?” Caramon demanded angrily, grabbing hold of Dalamar. “Palin’s not a mage, not yet. You said you would deal with everything—”

“I am aware of my words,” Dalamar interrupted. He neither moved nor spoke, but suddenly Caramon snatched his hand back with a gasp of pain. “And I will deal with .. . what must be dealt with. But things strange and unexpected may happen this night. It is well to be prepared.” Dalamar regarded Caramon coolly. “And do not interfere with me again. Come, Palin. You may need my assistance to enter these gates.”

Dalamar held out his hand. Glancing back at his father, Palin saw his eyes fixed on him. Don’t go in there, his anguished gaze pleaded. If you do, I will lose you....

Lowering his own eyes in confusion, pretending he hadn’t read the message that had been as clear as the very first words his father taught him, Palin turned away and laid his hand hesitantly upon the dark elf’s arm. The black robes were soft and velvety to the touch. He could feel the hard muscles and, beneath, the fine, delicate bone structure of the elf, almost fragile to the touch, yet strong and steady and supportive.

An unseen hand opened the gates that had once, long ago, been made of fluted silver and gold but were now black and twisted, guarded by shadowy beings. Drawing Palin with him, Dalamar stepped through them.

Searing pain pierced the young man. Clutching his heart, Palin doubled over with a cry.

Dalamar stopped Caramon’s advance with a look. “You cannot aid him,” the dark elf said. “Thus the Dark Queen punishes those not loyal to her who tread upon this sacred ground. Hold on to me, Palin. Hold on to me tightly and keep walking. Once we are inside, this will subside.”

Gritting his teeth, Palin did as he was told, moving forward with halting footsteps, both hands gripping Dalamar’s arm.

It was well the dark elf led him on for, left on his own, Palin would have fled this place of darkness. Through the haze of pain, he heard soft words whisper, “Why enter? Death alone awaits you! Are you anxious to look upon his grinning face? Turn back, foolish one! Turn back. Nothing is worth this...."

Palin moaned. How could he have been so blind? Dalamar had been right... the price was too high

“Courage, Palin!” Dalamar’s voice blended with the whispering words.

The tower was crushing Palin beneath the weight of its dark, magical power, pressing the life from his body. Still he kept walking, though he could barely see the stones beneath his feet through a blood-red film blurring his eyes. Was this how he felt when he first came? Palin asked himself in agony. But no, of course not. Raistlin had worn the Black Robes when he first entered the tower.

He came in the fullness of his power. Master of Past and Present. For him, the gates had opened.... All dark and shadowy things bowed in homage. Thus went the legend.... For him, the gates had opened.... With a sob, Palin collapsed upon the threshold of the tower.

“Feeling better?” Dalamar asked as Palin raised himself dizzily from the couch on which he lay. “Here, a sip of wine. It is elven, a fine vintage. I have it 'shipped' to me from Silvanesti, unknown to the Silvanesti elves, of course. This was the first wine made following the land’s destruction. It has a dark, faintly bitter taste—as of tears. Some of my people, I am told, cannot drink it without weeping.” Pouring a glassful, Dalamar held the deep purple-hued liquid out to Palin. “I find, in fact, that even when I drink it, a feeling of sadness comes over me.”

“Homesick,” suggested Caramon, shaking his head as Dalamar offered him a glass. Palin knew by the tone of his father’s voice that he was upset and unhappy, frightened for his son. He sat stolidly in his chair, however, trying to appear unconcerned. Palin cast him a grateful glance as he drank the wine, feeling its warming influence banish the strange chill.

Oddly enough, the wine was making him think about his home. “Homesick,"

Caramon had said. Palin expected Dalamar to scoff or sneer at this statement. Dark elves are, after all, “cast from the light” of elven society, banned from entering the ancient homelands. Dalamar’s sin had been to take the Black Robes, to seek power in dark magic. Bound hand and foot, his eyes blindfolded, he had been driven in a cart to the borders of his homeland and there thrown out, never more to be admitted. To the elves, whose centuries-long lives are bound up in their beloved woods and gardens, to be dismissed from the ancestral lands is worse than death.

Dalamar appeared so cool and unfeeling about everything, however, that Palin was surprised to see a look of wistful longing and swift sorrow pass over the dark elf’s face. It was gone as quickly as a ripple over quiet water, but he had seen it nonetheless. He felt less in awe of the dark elf. So something could touch him, after all.

Sipping the wine, tasting the faint bitterness, Palin’s thought went to his home, the splendid house his father had built with his own hands, the inn that was his parents' pride and joy. He thought about the town of Solace, nestled among the leaves of the great vallenwood trees, a town he had left only to attend school, as must all young, aspiring magic-users. He thought of his mother, of the two little sisters who were the bane of his existence—stealing his pouches, trying to peek under his robes, hiding his spell-books.

... What would it be like—never seeing them again?

... never seeing them again ...

Palin’s hand began to tremble. Carefully, he set the fragile glass down upon the table near his chair, fearing he might drop it or spill his wine. He looked around hurriedly to see if either his father or Dalamar had noticed.

Neither had, both being engaged in a quiet discussion near the window overlooking the city of Palanthas.

“You have never been back to the laboratory since?” Caramon was asking, his voice low.

Dalamar shook his head. He had removed the hood of his robes, and his long, silky hair brushed his shoulders. “I went back the week you left,” he replied, “to make certain all was in order. And then I sealed it shut.”

“So everything is still there,” Caramon murmured. Palin saw his father’s shrewd gaze turn to the dark elf, who was staring out the window, his face cold and expressionless. “It must contain objects that would grant tremendous power to a wizard, or so I would guess. What is in there?”

Almost holding his breath, Palin rose from his chair and crept silently across the beautiful, luxurious carpet to hear the dark elf’s answer.

“The spellbooks of Fistandantilus, Raistlin’s own spell-books, his notes on herb lore and, of course, his staff—”

“His staff?” Palin asked suddenly.

Both men turned to look at the young man, Caramon’s face grave, Dalamar’s faintly amused.

“You told me my uncle’s staff was lost!” Palin said to his father accusingly.

“And so it is, young one,” Dalamar answered. “The spell I put upon that chamber is such that even the rats do not come anywhere near it. None may enter on pain of death. If the famed Staff of Magius were at the bottom of the Blood Sea, it could not be more effectively lost to this world than it is now.”

“There’s one other thing in that laboratory,” Caramon said slowly in sudden realization. “The Portal to the Abyss. If we can’t get in the laboratory, how are we supposed to look inside the portal or whatever fool thing you wizards want me to do to prove to you my twin is dead?”

Dalamar was silent, twirling the thin-stemmed wineglass in his hand thoughtfully, his gaze abstracted. Watching him, Caramon’s face flushed red in anger. “This was a ruse! You never meant it, any of you! What do mean, bringing us here? What do you want of me?”

“Nothing of you, Caramon,” Dalamar answered coolly.

Caramon blenched. “No!” he cried in a choked voice. “Not my son! Damn you, wizards! I won’t allow it!” Taking a step forward, he grabbed hold of Dalamar ... and gasped in pain. Yanking his hand back, Caramon flexed it, rubbing his arm, which felt as though he had touched lightning.

“Father, please! Don’t interfere!” murmured Palin, going to his father’s side.

The young man glanced angrily at Dalamar. “There was no need for that!”

“I warned him,” Dalamar said, shrugging. “You see, Caramon, my friend, we cannot open the door from the outside.” The dark elf’s gaze went to Palin.

“But there is one here for whom the door may open from the inside!”

Chapter Six

For me, the gates will open....

Palin whispered the words to himself as he climbed the dark and winding stairs. Night had stolen upon Palanthas, sealing the city in darkness, deepening the perpetual gloom that hung about the Tower of High Sorcery.

Solinari, the silver moon beloved of Paladine, shone in the sky, but its white rays did not touch the tower. Those inside gazed upon another moon, a dark moon, a moon only their eyes could see.

The stone stairs were pitch black. Though Caramon carried a torch, its feeble, wavering flame was overwhelmed by the darkness. He might have been holding a burning wisp of straw for all the light the torch shed. Groping his way up the stairs, Palin stumbled more than once. Each time, his heart pulsed painfully, and he pressed himself close against the chill, damp wall, dosing his eyes. The core of the tower was a hollow shaft. The stairs ascended it in a dizzying spiral, protruding from the wall like the bones of some dead animal.

“You are safe, young one,” Dalamar said, his hand on Palin’s arm. “This was designed to discourage unwelcome intruders. The magic protects us. Don’t look down. It will be easier.”

“Why did we have to walk?” Palin asked, stopping to catching his breath.

As young as he was, the steep climb had taken its toll. His legs ached; his lungs burned. He could only imagine what his father must be feeling. Even the dark elf appeared to be at a loss for breath, though Dalamar’s face in the dim light was as cold and impassive as ever. “Couldn’t we have used magic?”

“I will not waste my energies,” Dalamar replied, “not on this night of all nights.”

Seeing the slanted eyes observing him coolly, Palin said nothing, but began climbing again, keeping his eyes staring straight ahead and upward.

“There is our destination.” Dalamar pointed. Looking up at the top of the stairs, Palin saw a small doorway.

For me, the gates will open....

Raistlin’s words. Palin’s fear began to subside, and excitement surged through his blood. His steps quickened. Behind him, he heard Dalamar’s light tread and his father’s heavier, booted one. He could also hear Caramon’s labored breathing, and felt a twinge of remorse.

“Do you want to rest, Father?” he asked, stopping and turning around.

“No,” Caramon grunted. “Let’s get this foolishness over with. Then we can go home.”

His voice was gruff, but Palin heard a strange note in it, a note he had never heard before. Turning slowly around to face the door, Palin knew it for what it was—fear. His father was afraid. It wasn’t just the dreadful climb, or the voices whispering of doom and despair. He was afraid of everything within this place.

Palin knew then a secret feeling of joy—one his uncle must have known. His father—Hero of the Lance, the strongest man he knew, who could, even now, wrestle the brawny Tanin to the ground and disarm the skilled swordsman, Sturm—his father was frightened, frightened of the magic.

He is afraid, Palin realized, and I am not! Closing his eyes, Palin leaned back against the chill wall of the tower and, for the first time in his life, gave himself up to the magic. He felt it burn in his blood, caress his skin. The words it whispered were no longer of doom, but of welcome, of invitation. His body trembled with the ecstasy of the magic and, opening his eyes, Palin saw his exultation reflected in the dark elf’s intense, glittering gaze.

“Now you taste the power!” Dalamar whispered. “Go forward, Palin, go forward.”

Smiling to himself, cocooned in the warmth of his euphoria, Palin climbed the stairs rapidly, all fear forgotten. For him, the door would open. He had no doubts. Why or by whose hand, he did not speculate. It did not matter.

Finally, he would be inside the ancient laboratory where some of the greatest magic upon Krynn had been performed. He would see the spellbooks of the legendary Fistandantilus, the spellbooks of his uncle. He would see the great and terrible portal that led from this world into the Abyss. And he would see the famed Staff of Magius....

Palin had long dreamt of his uncie’s staff. Of all Raistlin’s arcane treasures, this intrigued Palin most, perhaps because he had seen it portrayed so often in paintings or because it always figured prominently in legend and song. Palin even owned one such painting (he kept it wrapped in silk, hidden in his bedroom) of Raistlin in his black robes, the Staff of Magius in his hand, battling the Queen of Darkness.

If he had lived to teach me, and I had been worthy of him, perhaps he might have given me the staff, Palin thought wistfully every time he looked at the painting of the wooden staff with its golden dragon claw clutching a shining, faceted, crystal ball.

Now I will at least get to see it, perhaps even get to hold it! Palin shivered in delicious anticipation at the thought. And what else will we find in the laboratory? he wondered. What will we see when we look into the portal?

“AH will be as my father said,” Palin whispered, feeling a momentary pang.

“Raistlin is at rest. It must be! Father would be hurt, so terribly hurt, otherwise.”

If Palin’s heart was whispering other words, the young man ignored them. His uncle was dead. His father had said so. Nothing else was possible; nothing else was to be wished for....

“Stop!” hissed Dalamar, his hand closing about Palin’s arm .

Starting, Palin halted. He had been so lost in his thoughts, he had scarcely noticed where he was. Now he saw that they had come to a large landing, located directly below the laboratory door. Looking up the short flight of stairs that led to it, Palin drew in his breath with a gasp. Two cold, white eyes stared at them out of the darkness—eyes without a body, unless the darkness itself was their flesh and blood and bone. Falling back a step, Palin stumbled into Dalamar.

“Steady, young one,” the dark elf commanded, supporting Palin. “It is the Guardian.”

Behind them, the torchlight wavered. “I remember them,” Caramon said hoarsely. 'They can kill you with a touch ”

“Living beings,” came the specter’s hollow voice, “I smell your warm blood. I hear your hearts beating. Come forward. You awaken my hunger!”

Shoving Palin to one side, Dalamar stepped in front of him. The white eyes glistened for an instant, then lowered in homage.

“Master of the Tower. I did not sense your presence. It has been long since you have visited this place.”

“Your vigil remains undisturbed?” Dalamar asked. “None have tried to enter?”

“Do you see their bones upon these floors? For surely you would, if any had dared disobey your command.”

“Excellent,” Dalamar said. “Now, I give you a new command. Give me the key to the lock. Then stand aside, and let us pass.”

The white eyes flared open, a pale, eager light shining from them.

“That cannot be, Master of the Tower.”

“Why not?” Dalamar asked coolly. His hands folded in the sleeves of his black robes, he glanced at Caramon as he spoke.

“Your command, master, was to Take this key and keep it for all eternity. Give it to no one,' you said, 'not even myself. And from this moment on, your place is to guard this door. No one is to enter. Let death be swift for those who try.' Thus were your words to me, master, and—as you see—I obey them.”

Dalamar nodded his hooded head. “Do you?” he murmured, taking a step forward. Palin caught his breath, seeing the white eyes glow even more brightly. “What will you do if I come up there?”

“Your magic is powerful, master,” said the specter, the disembodied eyes drifting nearer Dalamar, “but it can have no effect on me. There was only one who had that power—”

“Yes,” said Dalamar irritably, hesitating, his foot upon the first stair.

“Do not come closer, master,” the being warned, though Palin could see the eyes shining with a lust that brought sudden visions of cold lips touching his cringing flesh, drinking away his life. Shuddering, he wrapped his arms around his shivering body and sagged back against the wall. The warm feeling was gone, replaced by the chill of this horrible creature, the chill of death and disappointment. He felt nothing inside now, just empty and cold. Perhaps I will give it up. It isn’t worth it. Palin’s head drooped. Then his father’s hand was on his shoulder, his father’s voice echoing his thoughts.

“Come, Palin,” Caramon said wearily. “This has all been for nothing. Let"s go home—”

“Wait!” The gaze of the disembodied eyes shifted from the dark elf to the two figures that huddled behind him. “Who are these? One I recognize—”

“Yes,” said Caramon, his voice low, “you’ve seen me before.”

“His brother,” murmured the specter. “But who is this? The young one? Him I do not know....”

“C’mon, Palin,” Caramon ordered gruffly, casting a fearful glance at the eyes. “We’ve got a long journey—”

Caramon’s arm encircled Palin’s shoulders. The young man felt his father’s gentle urging and tried to turn away, but his gaze was fixed on the specter, which was staring at him strangely.

“Wait!” the specter commanded again, its hollow voice ringing through the darkness. Even the whispers fell silent at its command. “Palin?” it murmured softly, speaking questioningly, it seemed, to itself... or to someone else...

A decision was reached, apparently, because the voice became firm. “Palin. Come forward.”

“No!” Caramon grasped his son.

“Let him go!” Dalamar ordered, glancing around with a furious look. “I told you this might happen! It is our chance!” He gazed coldly at Caramon. “Or are you afraid of what you might find?”

“I am not!” Caramon returned in a choked voice. “Raistlin is dead! I have seen him at peace! I don’t trust you mages! You’re not going to take my son from me!”

Palin could feel his father’s body trembling near his. He could see the anguish in his father’s eyes. Compassion and pity stirred within the young man. There was a brief longing to stay safe within his father’s strong, sheltering arms, but these feelings were burned away by a hot anger that surged up from somewhere inside of him, an anger kindled by the magic.

“Did you give Tanin a sword then bid him break it?” Palin demanded, pulling free of his father’s grip. “Did you give Sturm a shield and tell him to hide behind it? Oh, I know!” Palin snapped, seeing Caramon, his face flushed, about to speak. “That is different. That is something you understand. You’ve never understood me, have you, Father? How many years was it before I persuaded you to let me go to school, to study with the master who had taught my uncle? When you finally relented, I was the oldest beginning student there! For years, I was behind the others, working to catch up. And all the time, I could sense you and mother watching me anxiously. I could hear you talking at night, saying that maybe I’d outgrown this 'fancy.' Fancy!” Palin’s voice grew agonized. “Can’t you see? The magic is my life! My love!”

“No, Palin, don’t say that!” Caramon cried, his voice breaking.

“Why not? Because I sound like my uncle? You never understood him, either! You aren’t intending to let me take the Test, are you, Father?”

Caramon stood without moving, refusing to answer, staring grimly into the darkness.

“No,” said Palin softly. “You aren’t. You’re going to do everything in your power to stop me. Maybe even this!” The young man turned to look at Dalamar suspiciously. “Maybe this is some foul stew you and your friends here have cooked up to feed to me so that I’ll quit! It gives you all the perfect excuse! Well, it won’t work.” Palin’s cold gaze went from Dalamar to his father. “I hope you choke on it!”

Stepping past the dark elf, Palin put his foot upon the first step, his eyes on the specter, which floated above him.

“Come, Palin”—a pallid hand appeared from nowhere, beckoning—“come closer.”

“No!” Caramon screamed in rage, jumping forward.

“I will do this, Father!” Palin took another step.

Caramon reached out to grasp his son. There came a spoken word of magic, and the big man was frozen to the stone floor. “You must not interfere,"

Dalamar said sternly.

Glancing back, Palin saw his father—tears streaming down his face—still struggling in impotent fury to break free of the spell that bound him. For a moment, Palin’s heart misgave him. His father loved him.... No. Palin’s lips tightened in resolution. All the more reason for letting me go. I will prove to him I am as strong as Tanin and Sturm. I will make him proud of me as he is proud of them. I will show him I am not a child, needing his protection.

Palin saw Dalamar start to ascend the stairs behind him. But then the dark elf himself came to a halt as two more pairs of disembodied eyes suddenly materialized out of the darkness and ranked themselves around him.

“What is this?” Dalamar demanded furiously. “Do you dare stop me—the Master of the Tower?”

“There is only one true Master of the Tower,” the Guardian said softly. “He who came to us long ago. For him, the gates opened.”

As the Guardian spoke, it held out its pallid hand. A silver key lay within its skeletal palm.

“Palin!” Dalamar shouted, fear and anger tightening his voice. “Don’t enter alone! You know nothing of the Art! You have not taken the Test! You cannot fight him! You could destroy us all!”

“Palin!” Caramon begged in agony. “Palin, come home! Can’t you understand? I love you so much, my son! I can’t lose you—not like I lost him”

The voices dinned in his ears, but Palin didn’t hear them. He heard another voice, a soft, shattered voice whispering in his heart. Come to me, Palin! I need you! I need your help ...

A thrill tingled in his blood. Reaching out, Palin took the key from the specter and, his hand shaking with fear and excitement, finally managed to insert the silver key into the ornate silver lock.

There was a sharp click. Placing the tips of his five fingers on the oaken panel, Palin gave a gentle push.

For him, the door opened.

Chapter Seven

Palin entered the dark laboratory, slowly, exultantly, his body shaking in excitement. He glanced back to see if Dalamar was behind him (to gloat a little, if the truth must be told) when the door slammed shut. There was a click, a snap. Sudden fear assailed Palin, trapped alone in the dark ness. Frantically, he groped for the silver door handle, his fingers trying desperately to fit the key in the lock—a key that vanished in his hand.

“Palin!” On the other side of the door, he heard his father’s frantic shout, but it sounded muffled and far away. There was a scuffling sound outside the door, muttered words of chanting, and then a thud, as though something heavy had smote it.

The thick oaken door shivered, and light flared from beneath it.

“Dalamar’s cast a spell,” Palin said to himself, backing up. The thud was probably his father’s broad shoulder. Nothing happened. From somewhere behind him, Palin noticed a faint light beginning to glow in the laboratory. His fear diminished. Shrugging, the young man turned away. Nothing they did could open that door. He knew that, somehow, and he smiled. For the first time in his life, he was doing something on his own, without father or brothers or master around to “help.” The thought was exhilarating. Sighing with pleasure, Palin relaxed and looked around, a tingle of joy surging through his body.

He had heard this chamber described to him only twice—once by Caramon and once by Tanis Half-Elven. Caramon never spoke about what had happened that day in this laboratory, the day his twin had died. It had been only after much pleading on Palin’s part that his father had told him the story at all—and then only in brief, halting words. Caramon’s best friend, Tanis, had been more elaborate, though there were parts of the bittersweet tale of ambition, love, and self-sacrifice about which not even Tanis could talk. Their descriptions had been accurate, however. The laboratory looked just as Palin had pictured it in his dreams.

Walking slowly inside, examining every detail, Palin held his breath in reverent awe.

Nothing and no one had disturbed the great chamber in twenty-five years. As Dalamar had said, no living being had dared enter it. Gray dust lay thick on the floor—no skittering mice feet had disturbed its drifted surface—as smooth and trackless as new fallen snow. The dust sifted from the window ledges where no spider spun its web, no bat flapped its leathery wings in anger at being awakened.

The size of the chamber was difficult to determine. At first, Palin had thought it small, logic telling him it couldn’t be very large, located as it was at the top of the tower. But the longer he stayed, the larger the chamber seemed to grow.

“Or is it me that grows smaller?” Palin whispered. “I am not even a mage. I don’t belong here,” said his mind. But his heart answered, You never really belonged anywhere else....

The air was heavy with the odors of mildew and dust. There lingered still a faint spicy smell, familiar to the young man. Palin saw the light glint off rows of jars filled with dried leaves, rose petals, and other herbs and spices lining one wall—spell components. There was another smell, too, this one not so pleasant—the smell of decay, of death. The skeletons of strange and unfamiliar creatures lay curled at the bottoms of several large jars on the floor or the huge, stone table. Remembering rumors of his uncle’s experiments in creating life, Palin gave them a glance and looked hurriedly away.

He examined the stone table, with its runes and polished surface. Had it really been dragged from the bottom of the sea as legend told? Palin wondered, running his fingers lovingly over the smooth top, leaving behind a spidery trail in the dust. His hand touched the high stool next to the table.

He could picture his uncle sitting here, working, reading Palin’s gaze went to the rows of spellbooks lining shelf after shelf along one entire wall of the chamber. His heart beat faster as he approached them, recognizing them from his father’s description. The ones with the nightblue bindings and silver runes were the books of the great archmage, Fistandantilus. A whispering chill flowed from them. Palin shivered and stopped, afraid to go nearer, though his hands twitched to touch them.

He dared not, however. Only mages of the highest ranking could even open the books, much less read the spells recorded therein. If he tried it, the binding would burn his skin, just as the words would burn his mind—eventually driving him mad. Sighing with bitter regret, Palin turned his gaze to another row of other spellbooks, these black with silver runes—his uncle’s.

He was wondering if he should try to read, wondering what would happen if he did, and was just starting to examine them closer when he noticed, for the first time, the source of the light illuminating the laboratory.

“His staff...” he whispered.

It stood in a corner, leaning against a wall: the Staff of Magius. Its magical crystal burned with a cold, pale light, like the light from Solinari, Palin thought.

Tears of longing filled his eyes and ran, unheeded, down his cheeks. Blinking them back so that he could see, hardly daring to breathe, fearful that the light might go out in an instant, he drew nearer the staff.

Given to Raistlin by the wizard Par-Salian when the young mage had successfully completed his test, the staff possessed untold magical power. It could cast light at a word of command, Palin recalled. According to legend, however, no hand but his uncle’s could touch the staff or the light would extinguish.

“But my father held it,” Palin said softly. “He used it—with my dying uncle’s help—to close the portal and prevent the Dark Queen from entering the world. Then the light went out and nothing anyone said could make it glow again.”

But it was glowing now....

His throat dry and aching, his heart beating so that it made him short of breath, Palin reached out a trembling hand toward the staff. If the light failed, he would be left alone, trapped, in the smothering darkness.

His fingertips brushed the wood.

The light gleamed brightly.

Palin’s cold fingers closed around the staff, grasping it firmly. The crystal burned brighter still, shedding its pure radiance over him; his white robes glowed molten silver. Lifting the staff from its corner, Palin looked at it in rapture and saw, as he moved it, that its beam grew concentrated, sending a shaft of light into a distant corner of the laboratory—a corner that had previously stood in deepest darkness.

Walking nearer, the young man saw the light illuminate a heavy curtain of purple velvet hanging from the ceiling. The tears froze on Palin’s face, and a chill shook his body. He had no need to pull the golden, silken cord that hung beside the velvet, no need to draw aside those curtains to know what lay behind.

The portal.

Created long ago by wizards greedy for knowledge, the portals had led them to their own doom—into the realms of the gods. Knowing what terrible consequences this could have for the unwary, the wise among all three orders of wizards came together and closed them as best they could, decreeing that only a powerful archmage of the Black Robes and a holy cleric of Paladine acting together could cause the portal to open. They believed, in their wisdom, that this unlikely combination could never come about. But they had not counted on love.

So Raistlin was able to persuade Crysania, the Revered Daughter of Paladine, to act with him to open the portal. He had entered and challenged the Queen of Darkness, thinking to rule in her stead. The consequences of such ambition in a human would have been disastrous—the destruction of the world.

Knowing this, his twin brother, Caramon, had risked all to enter the Abyss and stop Raistlin. He had done so, but only with his twin’s assistance. Realizing his tragic mistake, Raistlin had sacrificed himself for the world—according to legend. He closed the portal, preventing the queen from entering, but at a dreadful cost. He himself was trapped upon the other side of this dread doorway.

Palin came nearer and nearer the curtain, drawn to it against his will. Or was he? Was it fear making his steps falter and his body shake—or excitement?

And then he heard that whispering voice again, Palin ... help...

It came from beyond the curtain!

Palin closed his eyes, and he leaned weakly upon the staff. No! It couldn’t be!

His father had been so certain Through his closed eyelids, the young man saw another light begin to glow, coming from in front of him. Fearfully, he opened his eyes and saw the light radiating from around and above and beneath the curtain. A multicolored light, it welled out in a dreadful rainbow.

Palin ... help me...

Palin’s hand closed of its own volition over the golden drawstring. He had no conscious thought of moving his fingers, yet found himself holding on to the cord. Hesitating, he looked at the staff in his hand, then glanced back behind him at the door leading into the laboratory. The thudding had stopped, and no lights flashed. Perhaps Dalamar and his father had given up. Or perhaps the Guardians had attacked them....

Palin shivered. He should go back, abandon this. It was too dangerous. He wasn’t even a mage! But as the thought crossed his mind, the light from the crystal atop the staff dimmed—or so it seemed to him.

No, he thought resolutely. I must go on. I must know the truth!

Gripping the drawstring with a palm wet with sweat, he pulled it hard, watching, holding his breath as the curtain slowly lifted, rising upward in shimmering folds.

The light grew more and more brilliant as the curtain rose, dazzling him.

Raising his hand, shading his eyes, Palin stared in awe at the magnificent, fearful sight. The portal was a black void surrounded by five metallic dragon heads. Carved by magic into the likeness of Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, their mouths gaped open in a silent scream of triumph, each head glowing green, blue, red, white, or black.

The light blinded Palin. He blinked painfully and rubbed his burning eyes.

The dragon heads shone only more brilliantly, and now he could hear them each began to chant.

The first, From darkness to darkness, my voice echoes in the emptiness.

The second, From this world to the next, my voice cries with life.

The third, From darkness to darkness, I shout. Beneath my feet, all is made firm.

The fourth, Time that flows, hold in your course.

And finally, the last head, Because by fate even the gods are cast down, weep ye all with me.

A magical spell, Palin realized. His vision blurred, and tears streamed down his cheeks as he attempted to see through the dazzling light into the portal. The multicolored lights began to whirl madly, spinning around the outside of the great, gaping, twisting void within the center of the portal.

Growing dizzy, Palin clutched the staff and kept his gaze on the void within. The darkness moved! It began to swirl, circling around an eye of deeper darkness within its center, like a maelstrom without substance or form.

Round... and round... and round... sucking the air from the laboratory up in its mouth, sucking up the dust, and the light of the staff....

“No!” Palin cried, realizing in horror that it was sucking him in as well!

Struggling, he fought against it, but the force was irresistible. Helpless as a babe trying to stop his own birth, Palin was drawn inside the dazzling light, the writhing darkness. The dragon’s heads shrieked a paean to their Dark Queen. Their weight crushed Palin’s body, then their talons pulled him apart, limb by limb. Fire burst upon him, burning his flesh from his bones.

Waters swirled over him; he was drowning. He screamed without sound, though he could hear his voice. He was dying, and he was thankful he was dying, for the pain would end.

His heart burst.

Chapter Eight

Everything stopped. The light, the pain.

Everything was silent.

Palin was lying facedown, the Staff of Magius still clutched in his hand.

Opening his eyes, he saw the light of the staff shining silver, gleaming cold and pure. He felt no pain, his breathing was relaxed and normal, and his heartbeat steady, his body whole and unharmed. But he wasn’t lying on the floor of the laboratory. He was in sand! Or so it seemed. Glancing around, slowly rising to his feet, he saw that he was in a strange land—flat, like a desert, with no distinguishing features of any type. It was completely empty, barren. The landscape stretched on and on endlessly as far as he could see. Puzzled, he looked around. He had never been here before, yet it was familiar. The ground was an odd color—a kind of muted pink, the same color as the sky. His father’s voice came to him, As though it was sunset or somewhere in the distance, a fire burned....

Palin closed his eyes to blot out the horror of realization as fear surged over him in a suffocating wave, robbing him of breath or even the power to stand.

“The Abyss,' he murmured, his shaking hand holding the staff for support.

“Palin—” The voice broke off in a choked cry.

Palin’s eyes flared open, startled at hearing his name, alarmed by the sound of desperation in the voice.

Turning around, stumbling in the sand, the young man looked in the direction of that terrible sound and saw, rising up before him, a stone wall where no wall had been only seconds previously. Two undead figures walked toward the wall, dragging something between them. The “something” was human, Palin could see, human and living! It struggled in its captors' grasp, as though trying to escape, but resistance was useless against those whose strength came from beyond the grave.

The three drew nearer the wall, which was, apparently, their destination, for one pointed to it and laughed. The human ceased his struggles for a moment.

Lifting his head, he looked directly at Palin.

Golden skin, eyes the shape of hourglasses ...

“Uncle?” Palin breathed, starting to take a step forward.

But the figure shook its head, making an almost imperceptible movement with one of its slender hands as though saying, “Not now!”

Palin realized suddenly that he was standing out in the open, alone in the Abyss, with nothing to protect him but the Staff of Magius—a staff whose magic he had no idea how to use. The undead, intent upon their struggling captive, had not noticed him yet, but it would be only a matter of time.

Frightened and frustrated, Palin looked about hopelessly for someplace to hide. To his amazement, a thick bush sprang up out of nowhere, almost as if he had summoned it into being.

Without stopping to think why or how it was there, the young man ducked swiftly behind the bush, covering the crystal on the staff with his hand in an attempt to keep its light from giving him away. Then he peered cautiously out into the pinkish, burning land.

The undead had hauled their captive to the wall that stood in the middle of the sand. Manacles appeared on the wall at a spoken word of command.

Hoisting their captive up into the air with their incredible strength, the undead fastened Raistlin to the wall by his wrists. Then, with mocking bows, they left him there, hanging from the wall, his black robes stirring in the hot breeze.

Rising to his feet, Palin started forward again when a dark shadow fell across his vision, blinding him more completely than the brilliant light, filling his mind and soul and body with such terror and fear that he could not move. Though the darkness was thick and all encompassing, Palin saw things within it—he saw a woman, more beautiful and desirable than any other woman he had ever seen before in his life. He saw her walk up to his uncle, he saw his uncle’s manacled fists clench. He saw all this, yet all around him was such darkness as might have been found on the floor of the deepest ocean. Then Palin understood. The darkness was in his mind, for he was looking upon Takhisis—the Queen of Darkness herself.

As he watched, held in place by awe and horror and such reverence as made him want to kneel before her, Palin saw the woman change her form.

Out of the darkness, out of the sand of the burning land, rose a dragon.

Immense, its wing-span covered the land with shadow, its five heads writhed and twisted upon five necks, and its five mouths opened in deafening shrieks of laughter and of cruel delight.

Palin saw Raistlin’s head turn away involuntarily, the golden eyes closed as though unable to face the sight of the creature that leered above him. Yet the archmage fought on, trying to wrench himself free of the manacles, his arms and wrists torn and bleeding from the futile effort.

Slowly, delicately, the dragon lifted a claw. With one swift stroke, she slit open Raistlin’s black robes. Then, with almost the same, delicate movement, she slit open the arch-mage’s body.

Palin gasped and shut his eyes to blot out the dreadful sight, but it was too late. He had seen it, and he would see it always in his dreams, just as he would hear his uncle’s agonized cry forever. Palin’s mind reeled, and his knees went limp. Sinking to the ground, he clasped his stomach, retching.

Then, through the haze of sickness and terror, Palin was aware of the queen and knew that she was suddenly aware of him! He could sense her searching for him, listening, smelling. . . . He had no thought of hiding. There was nowhere he could go where she would not find him. He could not fight, could not even look up at her. He didn’t have the strength. He could only crouch in the sand, shivering in fear, and wait for the end.

Nothing happened. The shadow lifted, Palin’s fear subsided.

Palin ... help ... The voice, ragged with pain, whispered in the young man’s mind. And, horribly, there was another sound, the sound of liquid dripping, of blood running.

“No!” The young man moaned, shaking his head and burrowing into the sand as though he would bury himself. There came another gurgling cry, and Palin retched again, sobbing in horror and pity and disgust at himself for his weakness. “What can I do? I am nothing. I have no power to help you!” he mumbled, his fist clenching around the staff that he held still. Holding it near him, he rocked back and forth, unable to open his eyes, unable to look.

“Palin—” the voice gasped for breath, each word causing obvious pain—“you must be ... strong. For your own ... sake as well as ... mine.”

Palin couldn’t speak. His throat was raw and aching; the bitter taste of bile in his mouth choked him.

Be strong. For his sake...

Slowly, gripping the staff, Palin used it to pull himself to his feet. Then, bracing himself, feeling the touch of the wood cool and reassuring beneath his hand, he opened his eyes.

Raistlin’s body hung limply from the wall by its wrists, the black robes in tatters, the long white hair falling across his face as his head lolled forward. Palin tried to keep his eyes focused on his uncle’s face, but he could not. Despite himself, his gaze went to the bloody, mangled torso. From chest to groin, Raistlin’s flesh had been ripped apart, torn asunder by sharp talons, exposing living organs. The dripping sound Palin heard was the sound of the man’s lifeblood, falling drop by drop into a great stone pool at his feet.

The young man’s stomach wrenched again, but there was nothing left to purge. Gritting his teeth, Palin kept walking forward through the sand toward the wall, the staff aiding his faltering footsteps. But when Palin reached the gruesome pool, his weak legs would support him no longer. Fearing he might faint from the horror of the dreadful sight, he sank to his knees, bowing his head.

“Look at me ...” said the voice. “You ... know me ... Palin?”

The young man raised his head reluctantly. Golden eyes stared at him, their hourglass pupils dilated with agony. Bloodstained lips parted to speak, but no words came. A shudder shook the frail body.

“I know you ... Uncle....” Doubling over, Palin began to sob, while in his mind, the words screamed at him. “Father lied! He lied to me! He lied to himself!”

“Palin, be strong!” Raistlin whispered. “You ... can free me. But you must... be quick....”

Strong ... I must be strong

“Yes.” Palin swallowed his tears. Wiping his face, he rose unsteadily to his feet, keeping his gaze on his uncle’s eyes. “I—I’m sorry. What must I do?”

“Use . . . the staff. Touch the locks around . . . my wrists.... Hurry! The ... queen ...”

“Where—where is the Dark Queen?” Palin stammered. Stepping carefully past the pool of blood, he came to stand near his uncle and, reaching up, touched the glowing crystal of the staff to the first of the manacles that held Raistlin bound to the wall.

Exhausted, near death, his uncle could speak no longer, but his words came to Palin’s mind. Your coming forced her to leave. She was not prepared to face one such as you. But that will not last long. She will return. Both o/MS ... must begone

Palin touched the other manacle and, freed of his chains, Raistlin slumped forward, his body falling into the arms of the young man. Catching hold of his uncle, his horror lost in his pity and compassion, Palin gently laid the torn, bleeding body on the ground.

“But how can you go anywhere?” Palin murmured. “You are dying”

“Yes”, Raistlin answered wordlessly, his thin lips twisting in a grim smile. In a few moments, I will die, as I have died countless mornings before this. When nightfalls, I will return to life and spend the night looking forward to the dawn, when the queen will come and tear my flesh, ending my life in tortured pain once more.

“What can I do?” Palin cried helplessly. “How can I help you?”

“You are helping already,” Raistlin said aloud, his voice growing stronger. His hand moved feebly. “Look...”

Reluctantly, Palin glanced down at his uncle’s terrible wound. It was closing! The flesh was mending! The young man stared in astonishment. If he had been a high-ranking cleric of Paladine, he could have performed no greater miracle. “What is happening? How—?” he asked blankly.

“Your goodness, your love,” whispered Raistlin. “So might my brother have saved me if he had possessed the courage to enter the Abyss himself."

His lip curled in bitterness. “Help me stand ...”

Palin swallowed, but said nothing as he helped the arch-mage rise to his feet. What could he say? Shame filled his soul, shame for his father. Well, he would make up for it.

“Give me your arm, Nephew. I can walk. Come, we must reach the portal before the queen returns.”

“Are you sure you can manage?” Palin put his arm around Raistlin’s body, feeling the strange, unnatural heat that radiated from it warm his own chilled flesh.

“I must. I have no choice.” Leaning upon Palin, the arch-mage gathered his torn black robes about him, and the two walked forward as fast as they could through the shifting sand toward where the portal stood in the center of the red-tinged landscape.

But before he had gone very far, Raistlin stopped, his frail body wracked by coughing until he gasped for air.

Standing beside him, holding him, Palin looked at his uncle in concern.

“Here,” he offered. “Take your staff. It will aid your steps—”

Raistlin’s hourglass eyes went to the staff in the young man’s hand.

Reaching out his slender, golden-skinned hand, he touched the smooth wood, stroking it lovingly. Then, looking at Palin, he smiled and shook his head.

“No, Nephew,” he said in his soft, shattered voice. “The staff is yours, a gift from your uncle. It would have been yours someday,” he added, speaking almost to himself. “I would have trained you myself, gone with you to watch the Test. I would have been proud... so proud...” Then, he shrugged, his gaze going to Palin. “What am I saying? I am proud of you, my nephew. So young, to do this, to enter the Abyss—”

As if to remind them where they were and the danger they were in, a shadow fell upon them as of dark wings, hovering overhead.

Palin looked up fearfully. Then his gaze went to the portal that seemed farther away than he remembered. He gasped. “We can’t outrun her!”

“Wait!” Raistlin paused for breath, color coming back to his face. “We don’t need to run. Look at the portal, Palin. Concentrate on it. Think of it as being right in front of you.”

“I don’t understand.” Palin looked at Raistlin, confused.

“Concentrate!” the archmage snarled.

The shadow was growing increasingly dark. Looking at the portal, Palin tried to do as he was told, but he kept seeing his father’s face, the dragon ripping his uncle’s flesh.... The shadow over them grew still darker, darker than night, as dark as his own fear.

“Don’t be afraid.” His uncle’s voice came to him through the darkness. “Concentrate.”

The disciplined training in magic came to Palin’s aid. Thus was he forced to concentrate on the words to a spell. Closing his eyes, the young man shut everything out—his fear, his horror, his sorrow—and envisioned the portal in his mind, standing directly before him.

“Excellent, young one,” came Raistlin’s soft voice.

Palin blinked, startled. The portal was right where he had envisioned it, just a step or two away.

“Don’t hesitate,” Raistlin instructed, reading the young man’s mind. “The way back is not difficult, not like coming through. Go ahead. I can stand on my own. I will follow....”

Palin stepped inside, feeling a slight sensation of dizziness and a momentary blindness, but it passed quickly. Looking around, he drew a deep breath of relief and thankfulness. He was standing in the laboratory once more. The portal was behind him, though he had no clear remembrance of how he walked through it, and beside the portal he saw his uncle. But Raistlin was not looking at him. His eyes were on the portal itself, a strange smile played on his thin lips.

“You are right! We must close it!” Palin said suddenly, thinking he knew his uncle’s mind. “The queen will come back info the world—”

Raising the staff, the young man stepped forward. A slender, golden-skinned hand closed over his arm. Its grip hurt; the touch burned him.

Catching his breath, biting his lip from the pain, Palin looked at his uncle in confusion.

“All in good time, my dear nephew,” whispered Raistlin, “all in good time...."

Chapter Nine

Raistlin drew the young man nearer, smiling slightly as Palin flinched, noting the look of pain in the green eyes. Still Raistlin held him, regarding him searchingly, studying the features, probing the depths of his soul.

“There is much of myself in you, young one,” Raistlin said, reaching up to brush back a lock of hair that had fallen across Palin’s pale face. “More of me than of your father. And he loves you best for that, doesn’t he? Oh, he is proud of your brothers”—Raistlin shrugged, as the young man started to protest—“but you he cherishes, protects....”

Flushing, Palin broke free of Raistlin’s grip. But he might have spared his energy. The archmage held him fast—with his eyes, not his hands.

“He’ll smother you!” Raistlin hissed. “Smother you as he did me! He will prevent you from taking the Test. You know that, don’t you?”

“He—he doesn’t understand,” Palin faltered. “He’s only trying to do what he thinks—”

“Don’t lie to me, Palin,” Raistlin said softly, placing his slender fingers on the young man’s lips. “Don’t lie to yourself. Speak the truth that is in your soul. I see it in you so clearly! The hatred, the jealousy! Use it, Palin! Use it to make you strong—as I did!”

The golden-skinned hand traced over the bones of Palin’s face—the firm, strong chin, the clenched jaw, the smooth, high cheekbones. Palin trembled at the touch, but more still at the expression in the burning, hourglass eyes. “You should have been mine! My son!” Raistlin murmured. “I would have raised you to power! What wonders I would have shown you, Palin. Upon the wings of magic we would have flown the world—cheered the winner of the fights for succession among the minotaurs, gone swimming with the sea elves, battled giants, watched the birth of a golden dragon. . . . All this could have been yours, should have been yours, Palin, if only they—”

A fit of coughing checked the archmage. Gasping, Raistlin staggered, clutching his chest. Catching hold of him in his strong arms, Palin led his uncle to a dusty, cushioned chair that stood near the portal. Beneath the dust he could discern dark splotches on the fabric—as though it had, long ago, been stained with blood. In his concern for his uncle, Palin thought little of it. Raistlin sank down into the chair, choking, coughing into a soft, white cloth that Palin drew from his own robes and handed to him. Then, leaning the staff carefully against the wall, the young man knelt beside his uncle.

“Is there something I can do? Something I can get for you? That herbal mixture you drank.” His glance went to the jars of herbs on a shelf. “If you tell me how to fix it—”

Raistlin shook his head. “In time ...” he whispered as the spasm eased. “In time, Palin.” He smiled wearily, his hand reaching out to rest on the young man’s head. “In time. I will teach you that... and so much more! How they have wasted your talent! What did they tell you, young one? Why did they bring you here?”

Palin bowed his head. The touch of those slender fingers excited him, yet he caught himself cringing, squirming beneath their burning caress. “I came—They said .. . you would try... to take...” He swallowed, unable to continued.

“Ah, yes. Of course. That is what those idiots would think. I would take your body as Fistandantilus tried to take mine. What fools! As if I would deprive the world of this young mind, of this power. The two of us ... There will be two of us, now. I make you my apprentice, Palin.” The burning fingers stroked the auburn hair.

Palin raised his face. “But,” he said in amazement, “I am of low rank. I haven’t taken the Test—”

“You will, young one,” Raistlin murmured, exhaustion plain upon his face. “You will. And with my help, you will pass easily, just as I passed with the help of another . .. Hush. Don’t speak anymore. I must rest.” Shivering, Raistlin clutched his tattered robes about his frail body. “Bring me some wine and a change of clothes, or I will freeze to death. I had forgotten how damp this place was.” Leaning his head back against the cushions, Raistlin closed his eyes, his breath rattling in his lungs.

Palin stood slowly, casting an uneasy glance behind him.

The five heads of the dragon around the portal still glowed, but their colors were faded, less brilliant. Their mouths gaped open, but no sound came out. It seemed to Palin, though, that they were waiting, biding their time. Their ten eyes, glittering with some secret, inner knowledge, watched him. He looked inside the portal. The red-tinged landscape stretched into the distance. Far away, barely discernible, he could see the wall, the pool of blood beneath it. And above it, the dark, winged shadow....

“Uncle,” Palin said, “the portal. Shouldn’t we—?”

“Palin,” said Raistlin softly, “I gave you a command. You will learn to obey my commands, apprentice. Do as I bid.”

As Palin watched, the shadow grew darker. Like a cloud covering the sun, the wings cast a chill of fear over his soul. He started to speak again, but at that moment glanced back at Raistlin.

His uncle’s eyes appeared to be closed, but Palin caught a slit of gold gleaming beneath the lids, like the eyes of a lizard. Biting his lower lip, the young man turned hastily away. He took hold of the staff, used its light to search the laboratory for that which his uncle had requested.

Dressed once more in soft black velvet robes, Raistlin stood before the portal, sipping a glass of elven wine that Palin had discovered in a carafe far back in a corner of the laboratory. The shadow over the land within had now grown so dark that it seemed night had fallen over the Abyss. But no stars shone, no moons lit that dread darkness. The wall was the only object visible, and it glowed with its own horrid light. Raistlin stared at it, his face grim, his eyes haunted by pain.

“Thus she reminds me of what will happen should she catch me, Palin," he said. “But, no, I am not going back.” Looking around, the archmage glanced at the young man. Raistlin’s eyes glittered within the depths of his black hood. “I had twenty-five years to consider my mistakes. Twenty-five years of unbearable agony, of endless torment.... My only joy, the only thing that gave me strength to meet each morning’s torture was the shadow of you I saw in my mind. Yes, Palin”—smiling, Raistlin reached out and drew the young man nearer—“I have watched you all these years. I have done what I could for you. There is a strength—an inner strength—in you that comes from me! A burning desire, a love for the magic! I knew, one day, you would seek me out to learn how to use it. I knew they would try to stop you. But they could not. Everything they did to prevent your coming must only bring you closer. Once in here, I knew you would hear my voice. You would free me. And so I made my plans ...”

“I am honored that you take this interest in me,” Palin began. His voice broke, and he cleared his throat nervously. “But you must know the truth. I—I didn’t seek you out to ... to gain power. I heard your voice, pleading for help, and I—I came because ...”

“You came out of pity and compassion,” Raistlin said with a twisted smile. “There is still much of your father in you. That is a weakness that can be overcome. As I told you, Palin. Speak the truth—to yourself. What did you feel upon entering this place? What did you feel when you first touched the staff?”

Palin tried to look away from his uncle. Though the laboratory was chill, he was sweating beneath his robes. Raistlin held him tightly, however, forcing the young man to look into the golden, glittering eyes.

And there see a reflection of himself... . Was what he said true? Palin stared at the image in the archmage’s eyes. He saw a young man, dressed in robes whose color was indeterminate, now white, now red, now darkening The arm Raistlin held jerked spasmodically within the archmage’s grasp.

He can feel my fear, Palin realized, trying to control the tremors that shook his body.

Is it fear? the golden eyes asked. Is it fear? Or exultation?

Palin saw the staff he held in his hand reflected in those eyes. He stood within the pool of its bright light. The longer he held the staff, the more he could sense the magic within it—and within himself. The golden eyes shifted in their gaze slightly, and Palin followed them. He saw the black-bound spellbooks standing upon the shelf. He felt once again the thrill he had experienced upon entering the laboratory, and he licked his dry, parched lips like a man who had been wandering long in a vast desert and who had, at last, found the cool water to ease his burning thirst. Looking back at Raistlin, he saw himself as in a mirror, standing before the archmage dressed in black robes.

“What—what are your plans?” Palin asked hoarsely.

“Very simple. As I said, I had long years to consider my mistake. My ambition was too great. I dared become a god-something mortals are not meant to do—as I was painfully reminded every morning when the Dark Queen’s talon ripped my flesh.”

Palin saw the thin lip curl for a moment and the golden eyes glint. The slender hand clenched in anger and remembered agony, its grip tightening painfully around the young man’s arm. “I learned my lesson,” Raistlin said bitterly, drawing a rasping, shuddering breath. “I have trimmed my ambition. No longer will I strive to be a god. I will be content with the world.” Smiling sardonically, he patted Palin’s hand. “We will be content with the world, I should say.”

“I—” The words caught in Palin’s throat. He was dazed with confusion and fear and a wild rush of excitement.

Glancing back at the portal, however, he felt the shadow cover his heart. “But, the queen? Shouldn’t we shut it?”

Raistlin shook his head. “No, apprentice.”

“No?” Palin looked at him in alarm.

“No. This will be my gift to her, to prove my loyalty—admittance to the world. And the world will be her gift to me. Here she will rule and I... I will serve.” Raistlin bit the words with his sharp teeth, his lips parted in a tight, mirthless grin. Sensing the hatred and the anger surging through the frail body, Palin shuddered.

Raistlin glanced at him. “Squeamish, Nephew?” He sneered, letting loose of Palin’s arm. “The squeamish do not rise to power—”

“You told me to speak the truth,” Palin said, shrinking away from Raistlin, relieved that the burning touch was gone, yet longing—somehow—to gain it back. “And I will. I’m frightened! For us both! I know I am weak—” He bowed his head.

“No, Nephew,” said Raistlin softly, “not weak, just young. And you will always be afraid. I will teach you to master your fear, to use its strength. To make it serve you, not the other way around.”

Looking up, Palin saw a gentleness in the archmage’s face, a gentleness few in the world had ever seen. The image of the young man in the black robes faded from the glittering, golden eyes, replaced by a yearning, a hunger for love. Now it was Palin who reached out and clasped hold of Raistlin’s hand. “Close the portal, Uncle!” the young man pleaded. “Come home and live with us! The room my rather built for you is still there, in the inn. My mother has kept the plaque with the wizard’s mark on it! It is hidden in a chest of rosewood, but I’ve seen it. I’ve held it and dreamt of this so often! Come home! Teach me what you know! I would honor you, revere you! We could travel, as you said. Show me the wonders your eyes have seen....”

“Home.” The word lingered on Raistlin’s lips as though he were tasting it. “Home. How often I dreamt of it”—his golden-eyed gaze went to the wall, shining with its ghastly light—“especially with the coming of dawn ”

Then, glancing at Palin from within the shadows of his hood, Raistlin smiled. “Yes, Nephew,” he said softly. “I believe I will come home with you. I need time to rest, to recover my strength, to rid myself of... old dreams.” Palin saw the eyes darken with remembered pain.

Coughing, Raistlin motioned the young man to help him. Carefully, Palin leaned the staff against the wall and assisted Raistlin to the chair. Sinking into it weakly, Raistlin gestured for the young man to pour him another glass of wine. The archmage leaned his head back wearily into the cushions. “I need time...” he continued, moistening his lips with the wine. “Time to train you, my apprentice. Time to train you... and to train your brothers.”

“My brothers?” Palin repeated in astonishment.

“Why, yes, young one.” Amusement tinged Raistlin’s voice as he looked at the young man standing by his chair. “I need generals for my legions. Your brothers will be ideal—”

“Legions!” Palin cried. “No, that's not what I meant! You must come live at home with us in peace. You’ve earned it! You sacrificed yourself for the world—”

“I?” Raistlin interrupted. “I sacrificed myself for the world?” The archmage began to laugh—dreadful, fearful laughter that set the shadows of the laboratory dancing in delight like dervishes. “Is that what they say of me?"

Raistlin laughed until he choked. A coughing fit seized him, this one worse than the others.

Palin watched helplessly as his uncle writhed in pain. The young man could still hear that mocking laughter dinning in his ears. When the spasm passed, and he could breathe, Raistlin lifted his head and, with a weak motion of his hand, beckoned Palin near.

Palin saw blood upon the cloth in his uncle’s hand and upon Raistlin’s ashen lips. Loathing and horror came over the young man, but he drew nearer anyway, compelled by a terrible fascination to kneel beside his uncle.

“Know this, Palin!” Raistlin whispered, speaking with an effort, his words barely audible. “I sacrificed ... myself ... for... myself.” Sinking back into his chair, he gasped for breath. When he could move, he reached out a shaking, bloodstained hand and caught hold of Palin’s white robes. “I saw ... what I must... become ... if I succeeded. Nothing! That... was... all. Dwindle ... to... nothing. The world ... dead.... This way”—his hand gestured feebly at the wall, the gruesome pool beneath it; his eyes gleamed feverishly—“there was... still... a chance ... for me ... to return ....”

“No!” Palin cried, struggling to free himself from Raistlin’s grasp. “I don’t believe you!”

“Why not?” Raistlin shrugged. His voice grew stronger. “You told them yourself. Don’t you remember, Palin? 'A man must put the magic first, the world second....' That's what you said to them in the tower. The world doesn’t matter to you any more than it does to me! Nothing matters—your brothers, your father! The magic! The power! That’s all that means anything to either of us!”

“I don’t know!” Palin cried brokenly, his hands clawing at Raistlin’s. “I can’t think! Let me go! Let me go....” His fingers fell nervelessly from Raistlin’s wrists, his head sank into his hands. Tears filled his eyes.

“Poor young one,” Raistlin said. Laying his hand on Palin’s head, he drew it gently into his lap and stroked the auburn hair soothingly.

Wracking sobs tore at Palin’s body. He was bereft, alone. Lies, all lies! Everyone had lied to him—his father, the mages, the world! What did it matter, after all? The magic. That was all he had. His uncle was right. The burning touch of those slender fingers; the soft black velvet, wet with his tears, beneath his cheek; the smell of rose petals and spice.. . .That would be his life. . . . That and this bitter emptiness within, an emptiness that all the world could not fill. . . .

“Weep, Palin,” Raistlin said softly. “Weep as I wept once, long, long ago. Then you will realize, as I did, that it does no good. No one hears you, sobbing in the night alone.”

Palin lifted his tearstained face suddenly, staring into Raistlin’s eyes.

“At last you understand.” Raistlin smiled. His hand stroked back the wet hair from Palin’s eyes. “Get hold of yourself, young one. It is time for us to go, before the Dark Queen comes. There is much to be done—”

Palin regarded Raistlin calmly, though the young man’s body still shuddered from his sobs, and he could see his uncle only through a blur of tears. “Yes,” he said. “At last I understand. Too late, it seems. But I understand. And you are wrong, Uncle,” he murmured brokenly. “Someone did hear you crying in the night. My father.”

Rising to his feet, Palin brushed his hand across his eyes, keeping his gaze steadfastly on his uncle. “I am going to close the portal.”

“Don’t be a fool!” Raistlin said with a sneer. “I won’t let you! You know that!”

“I know,” said Palin, drawing a shivering breath. “You will stop me—”

“I will kill you!”

“You will... kill me....” Palin continued, his voice faltering only slightly.

Turning around, he reached out for the Staff of Magius, which stood against the desk beside Raistlin’s chair. The light of the crystal beamed white and cold as his hand closed over it.

“What a waste!” Raistlin hissed, twisting out of his chair. “Why die in such a meaningless gesture? For it will be meaningless, I assure you, my dear nephew. I will do all I planned. The world will be mine! You will be dead—and who will know or care?”

“You will,” said Palin in a low voice.

Turning his back on his uncle, Palin walked with firm, steady steps to stand before the portal. The shadow was deeper and darker, making the wall within the Abyss stand out by hideous contrast. Palin could feel the evil now, feel it seeping through the portal like water flowing into a wrecked ship. He thought of the Dark Queen, able to enter the world at last. Once more, the flames of war would sweep across the land as the forces of good rose to stop her. He saw his father and mother die by his uncle’s hand, his brothers fall victim to their uncle’s magic. He saw them dressed in dragon scale armor, riding evil dragons into battle, leading troops of hideous beings spawned of darkness.

No! With the help of the gods, he would stop this if he could. But, raising the staff, Palin realized helplessly that he hadn’t the vaguest idea how to close the portal. He could sense the power in the staff, but he could not control it. Raistlin was right—what a stupid, meaningless gesture.

Behind him, Palin heard his uncle laugh. It wasn’t mocking laughter this time, however. It was bemused, almost angry.

“This is senseless, Palin! Stop! Don’t make me do this!”

Drawing a deep breath, Palin tried to concentrate his energy and his thoughts upon the staff. “Close the portal,” he whispered, forcing himself to think about nothing else, though his body quivered with fear. It was not a fear of dying, he could tell himself that with quiet pride. He loved life, never so much as now, he realized. But he could leave it without regret, though the thought of the grief that his death would cause those who loved him filled him with sorrow. His mother and father would know what he had done, however. They would understand, no matter what his uncle said.

And they’ll fight you, Palin knew. They will fight you and your Dark Queen as they fought once before. You will not win.

Palin gripped the staff, his hand sweating, his body trembling. He wasn’t afraid of dying. He was afraid of... of the pain.

Would it hurt... very much ... to die?

Shaking his head angrily, the young man cursed himself for a coward and stared hard at the portal. He had to concentrate! To put death out of his mind.

He must make fear serve him! Not master him. There was a chance, after all, that he might close the portal before his uncle ... before ...

“Paladine, help me,” said Palin, his gaze going to the silvery light gleaming atop the staff with steadfast, unwavering brilliance in the shadowy darkness.

“Palin!” Raistlin shouted harshly. “I warn you—”

Lightning crackled from Raistlin’s fingertips. But Palin kept his eyes upon the staff. Its light grew brighter, shining with a radiance whose beauty and clarity eased Palin’s last fears.

“Paladine,” he murmured.

The name of the god mercifully obliterated the sound of magical chanting Palin heard rising behind him.

The pain was swift, sudden... and soon over.

Chapter Ten

Raistlin stood alone in the laboratory, leaning upon the Staff of Magius. The light of the staff had gone out. The archmage stood in darkness as thick as the dust that lay, undisturbed, upon the stone floor, upon the spellbooks, upon the chair, upon the drawn, heavy curtain of purple velvet.

Almost as deep as the darkness was the silence of the place.

Raistlin stilled his breathing, listening to the silence. The sound of no living being disturbed it—neither mouse nor bat nor spider—for no living being dared enter the laboratory, guarded by those whose vigilance would last unto the end of the world and beyond. Almost Raistlin thought he could hear one sound—the sound of the dust falling, the sound of time passing....

Sighing wearily, the archmage raised his head and looked into the darkness, broke the ages-long silence. “I have done what you wanted of me,” he cried. “Are you satisfied?”

There was no answer, only the gently sifting dust drifting down into the perpetual night.

“No,” Raistlin murmured. “You cannot hear me. And that is just as well. Little did you think, Dalamar, that when you conjured my illusion for this purpose, you would conjure me! Oh, no, apprentice”—Raistlin smiled bitterly—“do not pride yourself. You are good, but not that good. It was not your magic that woke me from my long sleep. No, it was something else....” He paused, trying to remember. “What did I tell the young man? 'A shadow on my mind'? Yes, that"s what it was.

“Ah, Dalamar, you are lucky.” The archmage shook his hooded head. For a brief moment, the darkness was lit by a fierce glint in the golden eyes, gleaming with their inner flame. “If he had been what I was, you would have found yourself in sad straits, dark elf. Through him, I could have returned. But as his compassion and his love freed me from the darkness into which I cast myself, so it binds me there still.”

The light of the golden eyes faded as the darkness returned.

Raistlin sighed. “But that is all right,” he whispered, leaning his head against the staff that supported him. “I am tired, so very tired. I want to return to my sleep.” Walking across the stone floor, his black robes rustling about his ankles, his soft, unheard footsteps leaving no trail at all in the thick dust, the archmage came to stand before the velvet curtain. Placing his hand on it, he stopped and looked around the laboratory that he could not see except in his memories, in his mind.

“I just want you to know,” Raistlin cried, “that I didn’t do this for you, mages! I didn’t do it for the conclave. I didn’t do it for my brother! I had one more debt to pay in my lifetime. Now I have discharged it. I can sleep in peace.”

In the darkness, Raistlin could not see the staff he leaned upon, but he didn’t need to. He knew every curve of the wood, every tiny imperfection in the grain. Lovingly he caressed it, his delicate fingers touching the golden dragon’s claw, running over each facet of the cold, dark crystal it held.

Raistlin’s eyes stared into the darkness, stared into the future he could glimpse by the light of the black moon.

“He will be great in the Art,” he said with quiet pride. “The greatest that has yet lived. He will bring honor and renown to our profession. Because of him, magic will live and flourish in the world.” The archmage’s voice lowered.

“Whatever happiness and joy was in my life, Palin, came from the magic. “To the magic, I give you ”

Raistlin held the staff an instant longer, pressing the smooth wood against his cheek. Then, with a word of command, he sent it from him. It vanished, swallowed up by the endless night. His head bowed in weariness, Raistlin laid his hand upon the velvet curtain and sank again into sleep, becoming one with the darkness and the silence and the dust.

Chapter Eleven

Palin came slowly to consciousness. His first reaction was one of terror.

The fiery jolt that had burned and blasted his body had not killed him! There would be another. Raistlin would not let him live. Moaning, Palin huddled against the cold stone floor, waiting fearfully to hear the sound of magical chanting, to hear the crackle of sparks from those thin fingertips, to feel once again the searing, exploding pain....

All was quiet. Listening intently, holding his breath, his body shivering in fear, Palin heard no sound.

Cautiously, he opened his eyes. He was in darkness, such deep darkness that nothing whatever was visible, not even his own body.

“Raistlin?” Palin whispered, raising his head cautiously from the damp stone floor. “Uncle?”

“Palin!” a voice shouted.

Palin’s heart stilled in fear. He could not breathe.

“Palin!” the voice shouted again, a voice filled with love and anguish.

Palin gasped in relief and, falling back against the stone floor, sobbed in joy.

He heard booted footsteps clambering up stairs. Torchlight lit the darkness. The footsteps halted, and the torchlight wavered as though the hand holding it shook. Then the footsteps were running, the torchlight burned above him.

“Palin! My son!” and Palin was in his father’s arms.

“What have they done to you?” Caramon cried in a choked voice as he lifted his son’s body from the floor and cradled it against his strong breast.

Palin could not speak. He leaned his head against his father’s chest, hearing the heart beating rapidly from the exertion of climbing the tower stairs, smelling the familiar smells of leather and sweat, letting—for one last moment—his father’s arms shelter and protect him. Then, with a soft sigh, Palin raised his head and looked into his father’s pale, anguished face.

“Nothing, Father,” he said softly, gently pushing himself away. “I’m all right. Truly.” Sitting up, he looked around, confused. “But where are we?”

“Out—outside that... that place,” Caramon growled. He let go of his son, but watched him dubiously, anxiously.

“The laboratory,” murmured Palin, puzzled, his gaze going to the closed door and the two, white, disembodied eyes that hovered before it.

The young man started to stand.

“Careful!” said Caramon, putting his arm around his son again.

“I told you, Father. I’m all right,” Palin said firmly, shaking off his father’s help and getting to his feet without assistance. “What happened?” He looked at the sealed laboratory door.

The two eyes of the specter stared back at him unblinking, unmoving.

“You went in . . . there,” Caramon said, his brow creasing into a frown as his gaze shifted to the sealed door as well. “And . . . the door slammed shut! I tried to get in ... Dalamar cast some sort of spell on it, but it wouldn’t open. Then more of those ... those things” —he gestured at the eyes with a scowl—“came and I. . . I don’t remember much after that. When I came to, I was with Dalamar in the study....”

“Which is where we will return now,” said a voice behind them, “if you will honor me by sharing my breakfast.”

“The only place we’re going now,” said Caramon in a stern, low voice as he turned to face the dark elf, who had materialized behind them, “is home. And no more magic!” he snarled, glaring at Dalamar. “We’ll walk, if need be. Neither my son nor I are ever coming back to one of these cursed towers again—”

Without a glance at Caramon, Dalamar walked past the big man to Palin, who was standing silently next to his father, his hands folded in the sleeves of his white robes, his eyes downcast as was proper in the presence of the high-ranking wizard.

Dalamar reached out his hands and clasped the young man by the shoulders.

“"Quithain, Magus,” the dark elf said with a smile, leaning forward to kiss Palin on the cheek as was the elven custom.

Palin stared at him in confusion, his face flushed. The words the elf had spoken tumbled about in his mind, making little sense. He spoke some Elvish, learned from his father’s friend, Tanis. But, after all that had happened to him, the language went right out of his head. Frantically, he struggled to remember, for Dalamar was standing in front of him, looking at him, grinning.

“Quithain...” Palin repeated to himself. “Means . . . congratulations. >Congratulations, Magus...”

He gasped, staring at Dalamar in disbelief.

“What does it mean?” demanded Caramon, glaring at the dark elf. “I don’t understand—”

“He is one of us now, Caramon,” said Dalamar quietly, taking hold of Palin’s arm and escorting him past his father. “His trials are over. He has completed the Test.”

“We are sorry to have put you through this again, Caramon,” Dalamar said to the big warrior.

Seated opposite the ornately carved desk in the dark elf’s luxuriously appointed study, Caramon flushed, his brow still lined with the signs of his concern and fear and anger.

“But,” Dalamar continued, “it was fast becoming apparent to all of us that you would do your best to prevent your son from taking the Test.”

“Can you blame me?” Caramon asked harshly. Rising to his feet, he walked over to the large window and stared out into the dark shadows of the Shoikan Grove below him.

“No,” said Dalamar, “we could not blame you. And so we devised this way of tricking you into it.”

Scowling angrily, Caramon turned, jabbing his finger at Dalamar.

“You had no right! He’s too young! He might have died!”

“True,” said Dalamar softly, “but that is a risk we all face. It is a risk you take every time you send your older sons to battle..'..”

“This is different.” Caramon turned away, his face dark. Dalamar’s gaze went to Palin, who sat in a chair, a glass of untasted wine in his hand. The young mage was staring dazedly around as though he could still not believe what had occurred.

“Because of Raistlin?” Dalamar smiled. “Palin is truly gifted, Caramon, as gifted as his uncle. For him, as for Raistlin, there could have been only one choice—his magic. But Palin’s love for his family is strong. He would have made the choice, and it would have broken his heart.”

Caramon bowed his head, clasping his hands behind him. Palin, hearing a muffled choke behind him, set his wine glass down and, rising to his feet, walked over to stand beside his father.

Reaching out his hand, Caramon drew his son close. “Dalamar’s right,” the big man said huskily. “I only wanted what was best for you and—and I was afraid .. . afraid I might lose you to the magic as I lost him.... I—I’m sorry, Palin. Forgive me.”

Palin’s answer was to embrace his father, who wrapped both his great arms around the white-robed mage and hugged him tight.

“So you passed! I’m proud of you, Son!” Caramon whispered. “So proud—”

“Thank you, Father!” Palin said brokenly. “There is nothing to forgive. I understand at last—” The rest of the young mage’s words were squeezed from him by his father’s hug. Then, with a clap on the back, Caramon let his boy go and returned to staring out the window, frowning down at the Shoikan Grove.

Turning back to Dalamar, Palin looked at the dark elf, puzzled.

“The Test,” he said hesitantly. “It—it all seems so real! Yet, I’m here Raistlin didn’t kill me ...”

“Raistlin!” Caramon glanced around in alarm, his face pale.

“Be at ease, my friend,” Dalamar said, raising his slender hand. “The Test varies for each person who takes it, Palin. For some, it is very real and can have real and disastrous consequences. Your uncle, for example, barely survived an encounter with one of my kind. Justarius’s test left him crippled in one leg. But, for others, the Test is only in the mind.” Dalamar’s face grew tense, his voice quivered in remembered pain. “That, too, can have its effects, sometimes worse than the others ...”

“So—it was all in my mind. I didn’t go into the Abyss? My uncle wasn’t really there?”

“No, Palin,” Dalamar said, regaining his composure. “Raistlin is dead. We have no reason to believe otherwise, despite what we told you. We do not know for certain, of course, but we believe mat the vision your father described is a true one, given to him by Paladine to ease his grief. When we told you we had signs that Raistlin was still alive, that was all part of the ruse to bring you here. There have been no such signs. If Raistlin lives today, it is only in our legends ”

“And our memories,” Caramon muttered from the window.

“But he seemed so real!” Palin protested. He could feel the soft black velvet beneath his fingertips; the burning touch of the golden—skinned hands; the cool, smooth wood of the Staff of Magius. He could hear the whispering voice, see the golden, hourglass eyes, smell the rose petals, the spice, the blood....

Lowering his head, he shivered.

“I know,” said Dalamar with a soft sigh. “But it was only illusion. The Guardian stands before the door, which is still sealed. It will be, for all eternity. You never even went inside the laboratory, much less the Abyss.”

“But I saw him enter—” Caramon protested.

“All part of the illusion. I alone saw through it. I helped create it, in fact. It was designed to be very real to you, Palin. You will never forget it. The Test is meant not only to judge your skill as a magic-user but, more importantly, to teach you something about yourself. You had two things to discover—the truth about your uncle, and the truth about yourself.”

Know the truth about yourself... Raistlin’s voice echoed.

Palin smoothed the fabric of his white robes with his hands. “I know now where my loyalties lie,” he said softly, remembering that bitter moment standing before the portal. “As the sea wizard said, I will serve the world and, in so doing, serve myself.”

Smiling, Dalamar rose to his feet. “And now, I know you are eager to return to your home and your family, young mage. I will detain you no longer. I almost regret that you did not make another choice, Palin,” the dark elf said with a shrug. “I would have enjoyed having you as my apprentice. But you will make a worthy adversary. I am honored to have been a part of your success."

Dalamar extended his hand.

“Thank you,” said Palin, flushing. Taking Dalamar’s hand in his, he clasped it gratefully. “Thank you . . . for everything.”

“Yeah,” mumbled Caramon, leaving the window to come stand beside his son. He, too, gripped Dalamar’s hand in his, the elf’s slender fingers completely engulfed in the big man’s grip. “I—I guess I will let you use... that magic of yours... to send us back to Solace. Tika’ll be worried sick—”

“Very well,” Dalamar said, exchanging smiles with Palin. “Stand close together. Farewell, Palin. I will see you at the Tower of Wayreth.”

There came a soft knock upon the door.

Dalamar frowned. “What is it?” he asked irritably. “I gave instructions that we were not to be disturbed!”

The door opened by itself, apparently. Two white eyes gleamed from out of the darkness. “Forgive me, master,” said the specter, “but I have been instructed to give the young mage a parting gift.”

“Instructed? By whom?” Dalamar’s eyes flashed. “Justarius? Has he dared set foot in my tower without my permission—”

“No, master,” said the specter, floating into the room. The chill gaze went to Palin. Slowly the specter approached the young mage, its fleshless hand outstretched. Caramon moved swiftly to stand in front of his son.

“No, Father,” said Palin firmly, putting a restraining hand on his father’s sword arm. “Stand aside. It means me no harm. What is it you have for me?” the young mage asked the specter, who came to a halt only inches from him.

In answer, the fleshless hand traced an arcane symbol in the air. The Staff of Magius appeared, held fast in the skeletal fingers.

Caramon gasped and took a step backward. Dalamar regarded the specter coldly. “You have failed in your duties!” The dark elf’s voice rose in anger. “By our Dark Queen, I will send you to the eternal torment of the Abyss for this!”

“I have not failed in my duty,” the Guardian replied, its hollow tone reminding Palin fearfully of the realm he had entered—if only in illusion. “The door to the laboratory remains locked and spellbound. The key is here, as you can see.” The Guardian held out its other hand, showing a silver key lying in the bony palm. “All is as it was, undisturbed. No living being has entered.”

“Then who—” Dalamar began in fury. Suddenly, his voice dropped, and his face went ashen. “No living being . . .” Shaken, the dark elf sank back into his seat, staring at the staff with wide eyes.

“This is yours, Palin, as was promised,” the specter said, handing the staff to the young mage.

Reaching out, Palin took hold of the staff with a shaking hand. At his touch, the crystal on the top flared into light, blazing with a cool, clear radiance, filling the dark room with a bright, silvery light.

“A gift from the true Master of the Tower. With it,” the specter added in its chill tones, “goes his blessing.”

The white eyes lowered in reverence, then they were gone.

Holding the staff in his hand, Palin looked wonderingly at his father.

Blinking rapidly, Caramon smiled through his tears. “Let’s go home,"

he said quietly, putting his arm around his son.